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

My Take Tuesday: Forget Me Not

High in the beautiful mountains of Alaska grows a tiny, unassuming flower. It’s easy to miss, blending quietly into the surrounding vegetation. But if you pause—if you truly look—you’ll find a remarkable little masterpiece.

Its dark green stems and leaves are like any other plant. But its blossoms set it apart: delicate petals of sky-blue, capturing the brilliance of a cloudless summer day. Small though it is, this flower lingers in the memory. Fittingly, it’s called the “Forget Me Not.”

A few years ago, I visited a sprawling cemetery. I wandered quietly through the endless rows of marble headstones, many dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. Moss clung to their bases, and time had softened the names and dates carved into the stone until many were barely legible.

I stood among thousands of graves. And I wondered: Who were these people? What lives did they lead? What stories did they leave behind? A few are still remembered. Most, I realized, are not.

As I read those fading inscriptions, I found myself asking: Is this what will become of me? When I, too, go the way of all living things, will I be remembered? Will I leave a legacy worth remembering?

My thoughts turned to the small cemetery in Castle Dale, Utah—the little town where I was raised. It’s a place that’s easy to overlook. But for me, it holds deep meaning. The cemetery sits on the north end of Center Street. One summer, when I was in high school, I worked there as a caretaker. Week after week, I mowed the lawn and trimmed the grass around each headstone with quiet reverence.

Many of my own ancestors are buried there. My great-great-grandmother. My great-grandparents. My grandparents. A beloved uncle. Even an infant cousin. They all rest in that sacred ground.

My great-grandfather died long before I was born. But I have a photograph of him—smiling faintly as he sits on the grass in a pair of worn bib overalls. Though aged and weary, his character shines through that old photo. It brings to mind something Thomas Edison once said: “I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of all the kings of the world.”

My grandfather passed when I was just three years old. What I know of him comes mostly from the stories others have told me. He served as the county clerk for more than two decades. Like his father before him, he was a dryland farmer who worked tirelessly to provide for his six children. The land they worked—season after season, year after year—still belongs to our family today.

My uncle Jerry passed away in 2016. I owe him my life. When I was five years old, I stood in the doorway of his kitchen, holding one of his favorite pink wintergreen candies. I popped one into my mouth, and it lodged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Without hesitation, Jerry calmly walked over, gave me a firm push on the stomach, and sent the candy flying across the room. To know Jerry Bott was to know one of the finest people I have ever met. He was the embodiment of loyalty, charity, and love.

Their graves lie side by side on the south end of the cemetery’s middle section. Each of them lived lives of quiet courage and unwavering kindness. They treated others with respect, offered helping hands, spoke honest words, and smiled freely. Through long years and hard miles, they gave their best. And when life’s storms came, they stood and faced them with grace and strength.

As long as my heart beats, they will not be forgotten.

They continue to inspire me. Their legacy calls me to be a better father, a better friend, and a better man.

Like the tiny Forget Me Not—humble and easily overlooked—each of us, no matter how small or unnoticed we may seem, has an important role to play in the great tapestry of life and in the legacy we leave behind.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

The Call That Changed It All

It started on a Sunday drive,

Up I-15 to Sandy, half alive.

I’d packed my scrubs and nervous pride,

For Monday’s job—first shift, new ride.

The phone lit up; I took the call—

A “pregnant pet” (not strange at all).

I asked, “What type?” expecting a goat.

He said, “A reindeer.” My ears took note.

Now I’d seen cows and zebra too,

And once ultrasounded a kangaroo.

But reindeer? That was virgin ground.

Still, I just smiled and turned around.

I pulled in just time to catch the show—

A calf was coming, soft and slow.

Black as coal and barely breathing,

Mom was weak and barely feeding.

So, we stepped in, with absolute care,

And bottle-fed her daily there.

A week went by—both pulled through fine.

The bond was born. And so was mine.

The owner said, “I’ve long desired,

To breed these girls with frozen sires.

Ten years I’ve asked—no vet will try.”

I paused… then replied, “I am your guy.”

But something stirred—curious fire.

A whisper from the muck and mire:

What if this path, though odd and thin,

Was God’s own door… and I stepped in?

We researched deep and studied hard—

With two grand stashed on a maxed-out card.

No fancy grant, no ivory halls—

Just plastic tubs and cattle stalls.

We tried, we failed, we failed some more—

Till springtime opened one small door.

A calf was born—by frozen straw!

A little female, so frail and small.

From there, the floodgates cracked and poured,

With every calf, our spirits soared.

We chilled and thawed and timed the heat,

And tracked each cow from head to feet.

We learned to guide the cervix through,

A wand, a scope, and nerves of glue.

A program built on grit and chance,

And science learned from reindeer dance.

Now dozens born from our design—

A herd that stretches far and fine.

We stand among the world’s elite,

With liquid nitrogen at our feet.

And all because one random call

Was answered with a “Why not?” drawl.

It wasn’t skill or strength or fame—

Just time and chance that staked my claim.

If you wonder, why reindeer?

It’s simple: they just appeared.

And when they did, I chose to see,

A door flung open… just for me.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

An Enemy’s Christmas

The snow fell in silent harmony, each flake a dancer in an endless waltz from the heavens. By evening, Castle Dale, Utah, lay cloaked in a pristine blanket of white, the stillness broken only by the faint crunch of tires as our old green Chevy Suburban crept down a narrow, snow-covered road.

Inside the car, the magic of the evening was lost on me. At twelve years old, I sat sullenly in the back seat, my arms crossed in defiance. I didn’t want to be there.

In the rear of the Suburban, boxes of Christmas presents—wrapped with care and stacked neatly in empty Sunkist orange crates—shifted softly with each turn. The sound, a gentle whisper against the car’s stillness, grated on my nerves. It was a quiet reminder of the task I resented so deeply.

“Why them?” I muttered under my breath, the words heavy with bitterness.

To my young mind, no reason could justify this errand. Just weeks earlier, the family to whom we were delivering these gifts had penned a cruel letter to the local newspaper, a public rebuke aimed squarely at my father. I had read it myself, the words slicing deep, leaving wounds that felt fresh even now.

“Mom, why would they write such mean things about Dad?” I had asked, my voice laced with confusion and anger.

“I don’t know, Isaac,” my mother had replied gently, her tone even but tinged with sadness. “Sometimes people lash out because they’re hurting. It doesn’t make it right, but it’s what they do.”

“Well, it’s dumb,” I snapped, the injustice stoking my indignation. “None of it was true.”

Anger felt justified, even righteous. It shielded me from the vulnerability of hurt. The very idea of extending kindness to those who had wounded us seemed absurd, even offensive.

Yet here we were, delivering Christmas to them.

As the car came to a stop, the silence outside was profound. Snow muffled the world, insulating it in a cocoon of stillness. My father’s voice broke the quiet.

“Daniel, Isaac,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I need you to carry these boxes to the porch, knock, and then leave quickly. Don’t let them see you.”

My brother and I exchanged wary glances. Doorbell-ditching was a skill we had perfected in the innocence of childhood mischief. But this—this felt different.

The cold bit at my cheeks as I stepped into the night, the boxes heavy in my arms. The frigid air sharpened my senses, but my heart felt dulled, weighed down by resentment. My brother and I worked quickly, arranging the crates carefully on the porch. I raised a fist and knocked loudly, the sound reverberating in the stillness. Then we ran, retreating to the shadows where we watched, breathless and hidden.

The porch light flickered on, and moments later, a small, jubilant voice shattered the quiet.

“WOW! Look at what Santa brought us!”

I froze, the warmth in the child’s voice catching me off guard.

“See? I told you he wouldn’t forget us!”

More voices joined in—children’s voices, bright with excitement. From behind the frosted window, shadows danced as little hands carried the boxes inside. For a moment, we watched in silence, the glow of the porch light casting long shadows over the snow. Then, just as suddenly as it had come on, the light clicked off, and the house was still again.

The world was silent, but inside me, something stirred. The bitterness I had carried so fiercely began to thaw, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth—a feeling I could neither name nor fully understand.

Back in the car, I stared out the window, my thoughts heavy. My parents spoke softly, their words weaving through the quiet as they reflected on the power of love—the kind of love that gives freely, without expectation or condition.

Their words took root in my heart, drawing me to a scripture I had heard many times but was only now beginning to grasp:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:43–44).

That night, those words became real to me.

I don’t remember a single gift I received that Christmas. But I will never forget the glow of the porch light, the sound of those children’s voices, and the quiet realization that love—when given freely—has the power to transform even the hardest of hearts.

Thirty-three years have passed since that snowy Christmas Eve, yet its lesson remains etched in my soul. Outside my family, no one ever knew who left those gifts. But the truth I learned that night endures: love is not earned; it is given. It is steady and unwavering, reaching across divides, bridging wounds, and softening hearts.

Charley Pride captured it beautifully:

“He tells me money doesn’t matter,

Nor the color of your skin.

We could stumble or even fall, and still get up again.

‘Cause it ain’t about the deeds, good or bad, that we have done—

All we have to do is love to be disciples of the Son.”

This Christmas, I hope we pause to notice the beauty in life’s simple moments—a quiet snowfall, a radiant sunset, the warmth of family. And I hope we choose love, especially when it’s hardest. For when we give love, even to those who have wronged us, we open our hearts to something far greater: peace, healing, and grace.

The toys and clothes of my childhood have long since disappeared, but the memories remain. Christmas was never about what we received; it was about who we became.

That snowy night in Castle Dale taught me this enduring truth: the heart of Christmas is not found in receiving but in giving—freely, generously, and with love.

Merry Christmas.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Operation Santa Claus

Way out where the ponderosa pine lean to the sun,

Where the high desert wind and the bitterbrush run,

A herd once stood proud on that Oregon land—

A dream born from snow, guided gently by hand.

Sagebrush whispers on a crimson plain,


Where basalt cliffs bear wind and rain.


Snowcaps glint past juniper’s bend,


Redmond stands where earth won’t end.

It started with John Zumstein and a spark from the North,

A handful of reindeer he bravely brought forth.

From Alaska they came with their thick northern coats,

To Redmond they marched like a sleigh full of hopes.

They thrived in the dust where sleigh bells were heard,

Trading tundra for chaparral, western in word.

Then Mike and Cindy Gillaspie, with love in their grip,

Took hold of the reins for a decades-long trip.

They trained them for parades, for film and for show,

They taught them to prance, they taught joy to grow.

From Ernest Saves Christmas to Disneyland nights,

Their herd became magic in antlered delights.

But time, like snowfall, has ways of retreating—

And Mike and Cindy gave a final warm greeting.

Their herd found new homes, and two stayed with me—

Maximus strong, and sweet Yuki, carefree.

Now Maximus has passed, but he left us a sign.

That feels like a whisper of something divine.

A promise frozen in nitrogen, a new life begun—

Proof that their legacy still rides with the sun.

Yuki stood like a statue in snowfall and hush,

With frost on her lashes and velveted plush.

A crown of ice clings to each gentle tine—

The winter was hers, and the moment was mine.

You won’t find the ranch on a map anymore,

No boots by the gate, no wreath on the door.

But magic’s not housed in fences or stalls—

It lives in each hoofbeat when winter snow falls.

And when that new calf takes its first breath of air,

You’ll know Operation Santa Claus in still right here.

‘Cause legends ain’t buried—they roam, and they breathe,

In calves with a sparkle come each Christmas Eve.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Dasher, Dancer, and the One Who Pranced All Over Me

Many of the pictures I share are of our resident reindeer at Mountain West Animal Hospital. Sven and Yuki are basically Instagram influencers in velvet coats—docile, photogenic, and absolute hams for the camera. They adore kids, pose like seasoned pros, and Sven has an inexplicable fondness for the color pink. 

But let’s get one thing straight: not all reindeer are like Sven and Yuki. Some… are less snuggly. Especially during breeding season, when testosterone hits like a double shot of espresso on an empty stomach.

When male reindeer enter rut, they undergo a dramatic personality shift—think Dr. Jekyll to Mr. “I-Will-Skewer-You-With-My-Antlers.” As their testosterone climbs, their velvet-covered antlers harden and the velvet sloughs off—abruptly. Fresh blood on newly exposed antlers may look like a scene from a holiday horror film, but it’s NOT painful. By then, the antlers have no sensation. Just beauty, brawn, and unbridled rage.

A couple of years ago, I got a call from a reindeer farmer in northern Utah. His bull had injured the base of his growing antler. My first thought was this was terrible timing. August heat + fresh blood = flies, maggots, infection, and the stuff veterinary nightmares are made of.

I headed straight from the clinic to the farm. And because I’m the kind of nerd who likes to be prepared, I’d tossed my external hard drive into my front pocket before leaving—my veterinary version of a pocket protector.

The bull was in full rut: snorting, stomping, and glaring as though we’d personally offended him. It took three of us to restrain him while I cleaned and treated the wound. His antlers were massive, the kind of natural weaponry that makes you respect the airspace around them.

I had just finished when—of course—he broke loose.

He lowered his head and came straight for me.

I’d love to tell you I executed some graceful dodge-roll maneuver. I did not. I stood there like a deer—ironically—caught in the headlights, clutching a syringe and a bottle of iodine like they were going to help.

The impact was immediate and violent. The bull plowed into me and sent me flying. I hit the ground so hard my diaphragm decided to take a brief sabbatical. I scrambled frantically to catch my breath,  but it felt someone had pushed the pause button on my lungs.

When I finally sucked in a wheezy breath, pain exploded down my left side. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out what remained of my external hard drive. It was shattered—absolutely obliterated.

But that little chunk of tech probably saved my life. Without it, those antlers would have punctured my lung. Instead, I walked away with two cracked ribs, a bruised ego, and a new appreciation for data storage devices.

I eventually staggered to my feet, reeking of iodine and regret, but alive.

Moral of the story? Don’t let the festive antlers fool you. A rutting reindeer is not Rudolph. He’s the final enemy in a holiday-themed video game. Honestly, I’d take my chances with a Jersey bull in a bad mood—and that’s saying something.

So if you ever see a male reindeer grunting, snorting, and peeing on himself like it’s a party trick—stay away.

You’ve been warned.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

 

My Take Tuesday: White Lightning

Reindeer rarely struggle during birth. Nature has shaped them for survival in harsh places, gifting newborn calves with an astonishing vitality—they can wobble to their feet within minutes of entering the world.

Yet even with this resilience, danger lurks. Predation remains the leading cause of death in newborn calves. To counter this, reindeer have evolved a remarkable strategy: the cows synchronize their calving. When dozens of calves hit the ground at once, predators become overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of potential targets, dramatically lowering the risk for any single newborn. It’s brilliant biology at work—but in domesticated herds, synchronized calving can present its own challenges. Every now and then, a calf arrives too early, lungs still immature, and its fight for life begins the moment it takes its first breath.

Each year I perform several artificial inseminations on reindeer, and the calves born from these efforts are especially precious. We pour heart and time into giving them every possible advantage.

A few summers ago, one of those calves made an unforgettable entrance. He was a handsome young bull with a snow-white blaze on his nose, and we were smitten from the start. His presence was magnetic—one of those animals you can’t help but root for.

But within minutes it was clear something wasn’t right. His breathing was shallow and strained, the unmistakable sign of underdeveloped lungs. Premature calves often lack surfactant, the slippery, essential substance that reduces surface tension in the lungs and keeps alveoli—the tiny air sacs where oxygen exchange happens—from collapsing. Surfactant production ramps up late in gestation, so for preemies, every breath becomes a herculean effort.

Our treatment options were limited. Synthetic surfactant works wonders but comes with a price tag and a six-hour window that put it out of reach for most veterinary settings. Without it, the best lifeline is an oxygen chamber—essentially a neonatal ICU for calves—paired with intensive supportive care.

We nestled the little bull into the chamber and got to work. Feedings came every two to three hours. Monitoring was constant. The first stretch was nerve-wracking, each rise and fall of his tiny chest a small verdict on how the next hour might go.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things began to turn. His breaths deepened. His energy lifted. His will to live—always the wild card—proved strong.

Against the odds, he made it.

We named him White Lightning, after the bold streak across his nose and the spark he carried inside.

The day he turned the corner felt like a gift. We all gathered to celebrate, and even my youngest son, Kendyn—who at the time harbored a mild but persistent fear of reindeer—joined the moment. In the photo, he is very clearly crying, still convinced that reindeer are enormous, antlered monsters masquerading as cute livestock. (I’m pleased to report that he has since overcome his fear of reindeer.)

That summer, White Lightning reminded us that medicine isn’t just science—it’s heart, teamwork, timing, and sometimes a touch of grace.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM