My Take Tuesday: Among the Reindeer

There are moments in life that cause you to pause—moments that make you look back across the years and realize how unexpected the journey has been.

This past week was one of those moments for me.

I was deeply honored to receive the Industry Leader Award from the Reindeer Farmers Association. It is difficult to adequately describe what that recognition means to me, because it comes from a community I admire so profoundly.

My entire journey with reindeer began with nothing more than a random Sunday phone call about a “pregnant pet” that turned out to be a reindeer.

When I first became involved with reindeer, I had no idea where the path would lead. Like many things in veterinary medicine, it began with curiosity. Reindeer are fascinating creatures—biologically unique, remarkably resilient, and still among the least studied domestic species in the veterinary world. Their reproductive physiology, antler cycles, seasonal adaptations, and behavior make them unlike any other animal we commonly treat.

But what has impressed me even more than the animals themselves are the people who care for them.

Reindeer farmers are a special group. They are pioneers in many ways—raising a species that few veterinarians are trained to treat, often learning through trial, error, collaboration, and persistence. They are passionate stewards of these animals, and they carry a deep respect for the traditions and responsibilities that come with caring for them.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of working alongside these farmers—helping with breeding programs, troubleshooting medical cases, studying reproductive physiology, and learning something new every single season. In truth, the learning has been very much a two-way street. For every piece of veterinary knowledge I’ve shared, there has been an equal measure of wisdom passed back to me from the people who work with these animals day in and day out.

That is why this award means so much.

Recognition from your peers is always humbling. But recognition from a group of hardworking, dedicated individuals who live this industry every day carries a special weight. It is not something I ever expected, and it is something I will always treasure.

The truth is, veterinary medicine is rarely a solo endeavor. Progress happens when people come together—scientists, veterinarians, farmers, and caretakers—each bringing their own experience and perspective to the table.

The Reindeer Farmers Association is committed to advancing knowledge, improving stewardship, and promoting the responsible care of these remarkable animals. I am grateful to be a small part of that mission.

Looking ahead, there is still so much to learn about reindeer. Their biology holds many unanswered questions, and the future of this industry will depend on continued collaboration, research, and education.

For my part, I look forward to many more years of working with these incredible animals and the remarkable people who care for them.

It has been one of the most unique and rewarding chapters of my veterinary career.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Chris LeDoux

Twenty-one years ago today—Wednesday, March 9, 2005—started out as an ordinary day.

At the time, I was finishing my coursework at Southern Utah University and preparing to graduate. My classes ended at noon, and with a rare free afternoon ahead of me, I decided to go shopping for a chest of drawers.

I climbed into my Chevy S-10 and headed south on Main Street in Cedar City. Remnants of a recent snowstorm still lined the sidewalks, piled in gray banks along the road. Like most days behind the wheel, I had the radio tuned to KONY country.

A Chris LeDoux song came over the airwaves.

Instinctively, I turned the volume up.

When the song ended, another Chris LeDoux tune started playing. That caught my attention. Hearing one of his songs on the radio wasn’t exactly common, but two in a row was almost unheard of.

My heart sank.

I knew something had happened.

When the second song ended, the DJ came on the air and confirmed it: earlier that day Chris LeDoux had lost his battle with a rare cancer—cholangiocarcinoma.

Chris LeDoux was a man’s man. Anything he chose to do, he did well. He may not have been born with extraordinary talent, but through relentless work and determination he became extraordinary.

He was a world champion bareback rider.

An accomplished sculptor.

And one of the most authentic voices country music has ever known.

Chris worked hard at everything he did.

His music was a constant soundtrack to my youth. When I was working on the farm, his songs often played in the background—songs about digging postholes, stretching wire tight, irrigating alfalfa, and living life with grit and purpose. His lyrics reflected the world I knew.

Even today, as I travel, I still hear echoes of his songs in the places I visit—from Spokane to Manhattan, Salt Lake to Seattle, north to Billings and the Yukon River, and south to Fort Worth and San Antonio.

I had the chance to see Chris perform in concert many times. He was always a gentleman and remains, in my opinion, the greatest performer I’ve ever seen.

In his final studio album, Chris recorded a song called The Ride. In it, he sings about facing death with dignity and courage. The lyrics say:

Sit tall in the saddle

Hold your head up high

Keep your eyes fixed where the trail meets the sky

Live like you ain’t afraid to die

And don’t be scared—just enjoy your ride.

Chris LeDoux lived exactly that way.

Thanks, Chris, for the music, the example, and the quiet life lessons you shared with a simple farm kid growing up in Castle Dale, Utah.

Good ride, cowboy.

Good ride.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Eighteen Months

Eighteen months.

That’s a long time for a father.

Long enough for seasons to turn twice. Long enough for reindeer calves to be born, weaned and reach adulthood. Long enough for antlers to grow, harden, and fall. Long enough for a house to feel quieter than you ever imagined it could.

Eighteen months ago, I hugged a 19-year-old girl goodbye.

She was brave, but she was still my girl. Still figuring out her place in the world. Still with a little uncertainty behind her confidence. Still tethered to home in ways she probably didn’t even realize.

And then she left.

She left comfort.

She left familiarity.

She left the predictable rhythm of life at that age.

She stepped into the unknown.

As a father, you prepare your children to go — but you’re never quite prepared for the going.

There were phone calls that ended too quickly. Emails that carried more strength than I expected. Weeks when I could feel the stretch of distance more than usual. I missed her laugh. I missed her commentary on life. I just simply missed her presence. 

It is a peculiar ache — being proud and lonely at the same time.

A couple of weeks ago, I flew to Owasso, Oklahoma to have lunch with her. Just lunch. A few hours in the middle of her day. I was able to catch a glimpse of her life for the past year and a half. 

When I saw her walking toward me, something caught in my throat.

She stood taller.

Her eyes were steadier.

Her smile — still the same beautiful smile — carried something new behind it. Depth. Experience. Confidence.

She left as a young 19-year-old girl.

In just two weeks, she will return to Utah a confident, purpose-driven woman — refined by service, strengthened by her faith, and sure of who she is.

There is something transformative about serving something larger than yourself. About facing rejection. About loving strangers until they become family. About learning discipline when no one is watching. About choosing to push yourself when it would be easier to choose comfort.

I saw it in the way she spoke. In the way she listened. In the way she carries herself now.

Growth doesn’t happen in ease. It happens in stretching.

And she has stretched.

As a veterinarian, I talk often about development — how muscle strengthens under resistance, how bone remodels under stress, how living things adapt when challenged. I suppose the same is true of the human spirit.

Distance has refined her.

Service has shaped her.

And time has revealed the woman she was always becoming.

It is hard to have her gone for so long.

There is no pretending otherwise.

But if these eighteen months have done anything, they have reminded me of something important: we don’t raise children to keep them. We raise them to become.

And she is becoming something remarkable.

My daughter, I am so proud of you.

Proud of your courage.

Proud of your resilience.

Proud of the way you have chosen growth over ease.

Eighteen months has sure passed slowly.

But watching who you have become?

Worth every single day.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: On the Hill for the Profession

This morning, I found myself walking the halls underneath our nation’s capitol building —not as a tourist, not as a spectator, but as a veterinarian.

Today is the American Veterinary Medical Association’s legislative fly-in, and I am here alongside colleagues from across the country advocating for the issues that shape our profession and, more importantly, the animals and people we serve.

There’s something humbling about being in Washington, D.C. The buildings are imposing, the pace is relentless, and the decisions made here ripple far beyond these walls. They reach exam rooms, dairy barns, research labs, classrooms, and kitchen floors where a beloved dog rests its head.

Veterinary medicine lives in all of those places.

I had the opportunity today to meet with legislative staff representing Utah’s senators and members of the House. These conversations matter more than most people realize. Policy is often written far from the exam table, yet it directly affects access to care, workforce sustainability, student debt, food safety, public health, and the future of rural veterinary medicine.

We spoke about shortages in the veterinary workforce—especially in food animal and rural communities. We discussed the financial realities facing new graduates. We emphasized the essential role veterinarians play in safeguarding the food supply, protecting public health, and advancing biomedical research. And we talked about the human side of this work—the emotional weight, the responsibility, the calling.

Because veterinary medicine is not just a profession. It is infrastructure.

When a zoonotic disease threatens, veterinarians are there.

When the food supply is at risk, veterinarians are there.

When a family says goodbye to a beloved companion, veterinarians are there.

Yet too often, our role is invisible in policy conversations.

That’s why this fly-in matters.

Advocacy doesn’t always look like protest signs or podium speeches. Sometimes it is sitting across a conference table, telling real stories about real patients, real producers, and real communities—and helping decision-makers understand the downstream consequences of the laws they craft.

I was struck today by how receptive many of these staff members were. They asked thoughtful questions. They listened. They wanted to understand. That gives me hope.

Because the future of veterinary medicine will not be shaped solely in clinics and hospitals. It will also be shaped in committee rooms, in appropriations bills, and in conversations like the ones we had today.

We owe it to our profession—and to the next generation of veterinarians—to be present in those spaces.

To speak.

To explain.

To advocate.

As I walked out of those meetings, I felt a familiar sense of responsibility. The same one I feel when I step into an exam room. The understanding that I may be one small voice, but the moment still matters.

Today, that voice carried the concerns of practitioners, students, producers, pet owners, and communities across the country.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: By the Power of Grayskull…

Max is a very small poodle with big problems.

He came in after three days of not eating. That alone will get my attention. But then his owner added another detail—there was a rotten smell coming from his mouth. That’s often a recipe that never ends well.

On exam, Max looked miserable. Lethargic. Drool hanging from both sides of his mouth like a failed toothpaste commercial. He couldn’t quite close his mouth, which is never ideal for a species that relies heavily on mouths for, well… everything.

No fever. No obvious trauma. Just a very sad dog with a very unhappy face.

We gave a mild sedative and gently opened his mouth. The cause became immediately apparent.

There it was—wedged firmly between the upper molars on the left side—a piece of plastic. Not subtle. Not biodegradable. Lodged with purpose.

As I carefully removed it, I noticed something familiar about the shape.

It was a hand. A right hand. 

Not just any hand. A very specific hand. Molded plastic. Flesh-toned. With part of a wristband still attached.

And suddenly, the exam room faded away and I was eight years old again.

This was no ordinary plastic hand.

This was He-Man.

Those classic 1980s Masters of the Universe action figures were a huge part of my childhood. He-Man, Skeletor, Castle Grayskull—Saturday morning royalty. And apparently, decades later, still a choking hazard.

Max had chewed the hand clean off a He-Man figurine and lodged it between his molars like a tiny barbarian trophy.

Once removed, the smell made sense. The pain made sense. Everything made sense.

Max recovered uneventfully. As soon as the sedation wore off, he began eating like nothing had ever happened—because that’s how dogs roll. I explained everything to the owner, gave aftercare instructions, and sent Max home minus one piece of Eternian anatomy.

Case closed.

Or so I thought.

Two weeks later, Max returned.

Same presentation.

Same lethargy.

Same drool.

Same inability to close his mouth.

I stared at the chart. Surely not.

We sedated him again. Opened his mouth again.

And there it was.

Another plastic hand.

This time, the left one.

Same color. Same wristband. Same unmistakable origin.

Max had gone back for seconds.

Luckily, the fix was easy. Again. Max recovered. Again. Ate immediately. Again.

In veterinary medicine, you can prepare for parasites, infections, trauma, and disease—but nothing quite prepares you for a poodle repeatedly dismantling a childhood hero, one limb at a time. 

When the owner came to pick him up, I gave the usual aftercare instructions. Then I paused.

“Also,” I said, “please throw away the handless He-Man toy… before Max chews his feet off.”

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Bloody Mass

The appointment was scheduled simply enough: check bloody mass.

Those three words are usually enough to make a veterinarian straighten their spine a little and mentally review a differential list that ranges from “well, that’s interesting” to “this is going to be a long afternoon.”

The patient was an aggressive, large, hairy dog with jet-black hair. The kind of coat that absorbs light and optimism equally. From a safe distance, I could already tell this was not going to be a hands-on, kumbaya sort of exam.

On palpation—between defensive snaps and several sincere attempts on my life—I could feel it.

A rectangular, well-demarcated mass along the ventral aspect of the abdomen.

The dog tried to bite me roughly a dozen times, each attempt delivered with conviction. We elected to give a mild sedative and waited for it to kick in.

Once the sedation softened the patient’s enthusiasm for violence, I donned a headlamp. Any time a veterinarian puts on a headlamp indoors, you know something important—or deeply unpleasant—is about to happen.

I parted the dense black hair and inspected the mass.

It was red.

Glossy.

Perfectly rectangular.

Turns out, it was not a tumor.

It was not a hematoma.

It was not an abscess, cyst, or aggressive malignancy.

It was a red Jolly Rancher.

Apparently, at some point, this dog had laid down on a piece of hard candy with enough enthusiasm and body heat to weld it to his abdomen. Add a little moisture and friction, and voilà—it looked pathological.

The owners were relieved.

I was relieved.

The dog remained mildly offended.

We removed the candy, cleaned the area, and everyone left happier than they arrived—except perhaps the sticky Jolly Rancher, which spent its final moments in the service of diagnostic confusion.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Cast Iron Stomach Required

Veterinary medicine is not for the squeamish.

That’s not a complaint—just a fact. On any given day, I come face to face with things most people spend their lives actively avoiding. Urine. Feces. Blood. Flies. Maggots. Pus. Fluids of questionable origin. If it can leak, ooze, spray, crust over, or emit an odor that lingers long after it has physically left the room… I’ve met it.

Early in my career, these encounters were memorable. Traumatic, even. Today, they’re just Tuesday.

Over time, you develop a tolerance. Not immunity—but a kind of professional callus. I can now discuss dinner plans immediately after things that would have ended my appetite for a week in veterinary school. Most days, I remain composed. Upright. Respectable. Rarely do I dry heave in the exam room.

Rarely… but not never.

Occasionally, a case walks in that reminds you you’re still human. When that happens, defensive strategies are quietly deployed. A discreet swipe of Vick’s Vapor Rub beneath the nostrils. A surgical mask—not for sterility, but survival. Sometimes both. Dignity becomes secondary. Oxygen remains essential.

There are certain cases where caution is more than just good practice—it’s mandatory. When a suspicious swelling presents, I don’t rush in like a hero. First, I aspirate with a needle to confirm exactly what I’m dealing with. This step matters. Veterinary medicine teaches you many things, one of which is that surprises are rarely good—and sometimes surgically inconvenient.

Once, I had a cat present with an abscess that had clearly been holding onto its feelings for quite some time. When it was finally addressed, the contents made their displeasure known immediately. Copiously. Enthusiastically. The smell arrived before the explanation.

And then something unexpected happened.

The cat gagged.

It turns out that cats—aloof, superior, emotionally distant creatures—also possess a very real vomit reflex when confronted with something truly offensive. Watching a cat dry heave in response to its own abscess was one of those rare moments when nature reminds you it has an impeccable sense of humor.

In that instant, I learned two important things:

1. Cats are not as unbothered as they pretend to be.

2. I was not alone in my suffering.

The humans, however, did not fare as well.

Over the years, I’ve had owners faint. I’ve had owners bolt for the door. I’ve had owners make noises that suggested deep regret over every life decision that led them into that exam room. And honestly, I don’t blame them. This profession demands a cast iron stomach—and not everyone signed up for that part.

Veterinary medicine requires compassion, intelligence, patience… and a very specific tolerance for things most people would consider deal-breakers. It’s not glamorous. It’s not always pleasant. But it’s honest work—and occasionally, it’s unintentionally hilarious.

If you’ll excuse me now, we just ran out of Vick’s.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Investing Forward

Several years ago, I had the chance to attend a unique hands-on veterinary training event that left a lasting impression on me. What made it memorable wasn’t just what was taught—but where it happened and who it was meant to serve.

This was a high-level reproduction wet lab hosted and delivered by the Society for Theriogenology, an organization dedicated to reproductive science and clinical excellence. The instructors were pioneers in our field—individuals whose work has shaped how reproductive medicine is practiced across species and across the world.

And yet, this elite, specialty-level training wasn’t held at a university or research institute.

It was hosted at James Madison High School in San Antonio, Texas.

That detail matters.

The school had invested in a remarkable agricultural and science program—facilities, labs, and learning spaces that rival many colleges.

When young people are trusted early—when professionals take the time to teach, mentor, and include them—it changes the trajectory of their lives. It tells them: You belong here. Your future matters. Someone sees potential in you.

We often talk about “the future” as something abstract, something that will simply arrive on its own. But the future doesn’t build itself. It is shaped intentionally by people who are willing to invest time, energy, and experience into the next generation.

Every one of us can trace our path back to someone who opened a door—a teacher who stayed late, a mentor who took us seriously, a professional who said, Come stand next to me. Let me show you how this works.

Those moments matter more than we realize.

The students who walk those halls today will become tomorrow’s veterinarians, scientists, educators, business leaders, and public servants. Not because they were told they had to—but because someone believed in them early enough to make a difference.

If we want a strong, compassionate, and capable future—whether in veterinary medicine or any profession—we must be willing to invest in students now.

Mentorship isn’t optional. It’s how legacies are built.

If we want a profession that is resilient, ethical, innovative, and compassionate, mentorship cannot be optional. It is not a courtesy. It is an obligation we inherit—and must pass forward.

The return on that investment is immeasurable.

The future doesn’t need more spectators.

It needs mentors.

It needs pioneers willing to teach.

It needs professionals who invest downward, not just outward.

That is how legacies are built—not by looking back, but by investing forward.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Love Interrupted

Death is something I deal with every day.

As a veterinarian, I stand at the intersection of hope and heartbreak more often than I’d like to admit. I witness first breaths and last ones. I celebrate new life and bear witness to final goodbyes. With time, you learn how to function in that space—but you never become immune to it. You can’t. And if you ever do, it’s time to stop doing this work.

For many people, losing a pet is not simply losing an animal. It is losing a constant. A confidant. A steady presence that didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t waver. A being that loved purely, faithfully, and without conditions. For some, that bond runs as deep—and hurts as profoundly—as any human relationship.

Yet grief over a pet is often minimized. Quietly dismissed. But those who have shared their lives with an animal know better. That grief is real. It is heavy. It settles into the quiet spaces—an empty spot by the door, an unused leash, the silence where nails once clicked across the floor.

What makes this loss so unbearable is its abruptness. Love doesn’t fade. It doesn’t prepare us. It stops mid-sentence. Mid-routine. Mid-life.

Love, interrupted.

In the exam room, I see it before a word is spoken. The hesitation. The disbelief. The quiet bargaining. Hands grip fur just a little tighter, as if love alone might hold life in place. I feel the weight of those moments—every single one of them.

People often ask how I do this job. How I face death day after day. The truth is, it takes a toll. Every goodbye leaves a mark. Some days, I carry them home with me. Other days, they rest quietly on my chest—unseen, but always felt.

And yet, I also witness something extraordinary.

I see courage—the courage to love knowing the ending is inevitable. I see selflessness—the willingness to absorb pain so an animal does not have to suffer. I see devotion—the kind that stays until the very last breath.

Grief, I have learned, is not weakness. It is evidence. Proof that love existed. Proof that the bond mattered. Proof that something beautiful was shared.

And while love may be interrupted by death, it is never erased by it.

It remains—in memories, in habits that linger, in the quiet gratitude for a life well lived and deeply loved. That kind of love does not disappear. It simply changes form.

If you are grieving a pet today, know this: your grief is valid. Your pain is earned. And your love mattered more than you may ever fully understand.

Love interrupted still counts as love.

And sometimes, it is the purest kind there is.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: In the Room Where It Happens

I just returned from Chicago. I was privileged to attend the Veterinary Leadership Conference, and once again, it reminded me why I love this profession so deeply.

I love everything about this conference. New leaders sitting next to seasoned ones. Students leaning forward in their chairs. Mentors leaning back, still listening. Everyone showing up—not for credit, not for applause—but to do the work of shaping our profession.

The American Veterinary Medical Association (AVMA) held the winter session of the House of Delegates January 9–10, and it was, as always, humbling. More than 111,000 AVMA members are represented through this body. Seventy delegates speak for their respective states, territories, and allied groups—every facet of veterinary medicine flowing into one room: small animal, large animal, industry, academia, military, and students.

And what a room it is.

I am continually amazed by the depth of expertise in that space. Surgeons, researchers, practitioners, educators, policy thinkers. People who could be anywhere else—but chose to be here, debating language, refining resolutions, and asking the hard questions that rarely fit neatly into bullet points.

The House of Delegates is the principal policy-making body of the AVMA. It sets direction, elects leadership, and guides how our profession shows up in the world. But when you’re sitting in the middle of it, it doesn’t feel like bureaucracy. It feels like stewardship.

I serve as the delegate for the Society for Theriogenology—a group devoted to animal reproduction. It’s a small but mighty corner of veterinary medicine, and I never take lightly the privilege of carrying their voice into that room. When I participate, I’m not just speaking for myself. I’m speaking for colleagues, mentors, and future veterinarians who care deeply about the same work.

What strikes me most each year is not the disagreement—but the respect. Policies are debated. Language is challenged. Perspectives differ. And yet, the common thread remains we are all trying to make veterinary medicine better than we found it.

I often think about that line from Hamilton— “the room where it happens.” It is an honor to be in that room. 

I left Chicago with cold hands, tired feet, and a heart quietly full. Veterinary medicine is not only practiced in clinics and barns—it is also gently shaped in conference rooms, by people willing to listen deeply, speak carefully, and carry the profession forward.

And honestly… I wouldn’t trade my seat in that room for anything.

And that is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM