My Take Tuesday: A Purpose Worth Serving

There is something deeply meaningful about being someone’s veterinarian.

You trust me with a member of your family. You bring me your questions, your worries, and sometimes an animal you have loved for nearly as long as you can remember. Over time, those visits become relationships. I come to know the person holding the other end of the leash as well.

That trust is something I never take for granted.

As many of you know, I am seeking the position of President-Elect of the American Veterinary Medical Association. Over the coming months, I will occasionally travel to meet with veterinarians across the country, listen to their concerns, and discuss the future of the profession we all depend upon.

I also want to reassure you about something important.

I am not going anywhere.

Mountain West Animal Hospital remains my home, and caring for your animals remains one of the greatest privileges of my life. What will change is that I will be away more often than I have been in the past as I pursue this opportunity to serve our profession. There will be days when I am traveling, attending meetings, or representing veterinarians beyond our community.

I understand that can be difficult, especially when your pet is ill or you are facing an important decision. Familiarity matters. Having a veterinarian who knows your animal’s history, understands your concerns, and has shared in their journey matters.

When I am away, Dr. King, Dr. Davis, or Dr. LeMonds will be helping provide that care. I am grateful for their support and for the remarkable team at Mountain West Animal Hospital whose daily dedication makes it possible for me to pursue this opportunity. Most importantly, your animals’ care remains a responsibility I take seriously and will continue to take seriously.

I also want you to understand why I am doing this.

Veterinary medicine has given me far more than a career. It has given me purpose. It has introduced me to extraordinary people, allowed me to ease suffering, and given me a place in the lives of animals and families I will never forget.

I feel a responsibility to give something back.

Our profession is facing significant challenges. Workforce shortages, burnout, financial pressures, and questions about the future of veterinary care affect practices of every size. We need leaders who are willing to listen, bring people together, and work toward practical solutions. We need to support the veterinarians, technicians, assistants, receptionists, and practice teams who make veterinary care possible.

Those challenges may seem far removed from our exam rooms, but they are not.

The future of veterinary medicine matters to anyone who has ever needed a veterinarian and hoped one would be there when they needed help.

My desire to serve grows directly from the meaning I have found in this work. I want the next generation of veterinary professionals to inherit a profession where they can build a rewarding career, care for their patients, and experience the same sense of purpose that I have been fortunate to find.

To my clients, thank you.

Thank you for your patience, your support, and your encouragement. I know my time away asks something of you as well, and I do not take that lightly. The kindness many of you have already shown me means more than I can adequately express.

No matter where these travels take me, they always bring me back to the place that reminds me why this profession matters. They bring me back to the animals, families, and relationships that have shaped my career and my life.

I may be away more often than before, but I am not leaving.

This hospital, this community, and the trust you have placed in me remain at the heart of everything I do.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Wide Open Spaces

Growing up in Castle Dale, Utah, life revolved around the small farm my family worked together. We raised sheep, cattle, and chickens, and our days moved to the rhythm of seasons, weather, and pasture rotations.

One of my favorite moments came whenever we opened the gate to a new field.

It didn’t matter whether the pasture was lush with fresh grass, churned into mud, or covered by a blanket of snow. The reaction was always the same. The animals would burst through the opening, running, leaping, and bucking with an enthusiasm that seemed almost excessive. To an outside observer, the new field might not look any different from the old one, but to them it represented something irresistible.

Space.

Freedom.

Possibility.

The older I get, the more I realize people are not much different.

Too often, I find myself living inside a self-imposed corral, surrounded by fences built from routine, caution, and predictability. I tell myself those fences are there for protection. They keep the dangers out. But if I’m honest, they mostly keep me in. And I suspect I’m not alone.

There is comfort in familiar pastures. There is safety in knowing every corner, every path, and every outcome. Yet comfort has a way of becoming confinement. The longer we stay inside the boundaries we’ve drawn, the easier it becomes to mistake security for fulfillment.

Growth rarely happens there.

Progress requires movement. It asks us to step into uncertainty, embrace inconvenience, and accept the possibility of failure. Every worthwhile adventure begins with a gate opening and a decision to walk through it.

Mark Twain is often credited with saying, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did.” Whether or not life’s great opportunities are waiting on the other side, none of us will ever know if we refuse to leave where we stand.

So today, I remind myself to unlatch the gate.

To step beyond the familiar fences.

To trust that even if the pasture ahead is not greener, the journey itself will be worth it.

Like those sheep in Castle Dale, I want to run toward possibility, not because I know exactly what waits beyond the hill, but because freedom has always belonged to those willing to explore.

With that, I cast off the bowlines and leave the safe harbor behind. The horizon is wide, the wind is fresh, and there is still more country left to see.

It is time to explore.

It is time to dream.

It is time to discover.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Text We Mean to Send

My dear friend Amanda and I went to veterinary school together.

She is younger than I am—and I just turned forty-six.

At this age, we are supposed to have plenty of time. Time to finish the work in front of us. Time to reconnect with old friends. Time to say the things we have thought about saying but somehow never quite get around to.

Then, in a single instant, time changed for Amanda.

She suffered a devastating stroke. Surgeons had to operate urgently to remove a clot from her neck and brain. Now, the people who love her are waiting—hoping for healing, watching for signs of recovery, and wondering what the future may hold.

Will she regain the function she has lost?

Will there be lasting cognitive impairment?

What will her life look like tomorrow, next month, or a year from now?

There are no clear answers yet. Only questions, prayers, and the terrible uncertainty that follows when life changes without warning.

As I have thought about Amanda, other questions have troubled me.

Did I reach out often enough?

Was I a good friend?

Does she know how much I care about her?

We spend so much of our lives believing there will be another opportunity. Another lunch. Another conference. Another phone call. Another Christmas card. Another moment when the schedule is less crowded and life finally slows down enough for us to reconnect.

We mean to send the text.

We intend to make the call.

We think about someone we love and tell ourselves, “I need to reach out.”

Then a patient needs us. A meeting begins. An airplane boards. The chores pile up. The day ends. Weeks become months, and months quietly become years.

We assume there will always be more time.

Until there isn’t.

Amanda’s stroke has forced me to reconsider what truly matters.

Positions mean nothing.

Wealth means nothing.

Titles mean nothing.

They may provide opportunities to serve, and they may allow us to accomplish good things. But they cannot hold our hand beside a hospital bed. They cannot speak the words we left unsaid. They cannot replace the time we failed to give someone we loved.

Someday, every title we worked so hard to earn will belong to someone else. Every position will be filled by another name. The possessions we gathered will be divided, sold, or forgotten.

What will remain is how we made people feel.

Did they know they mattered?

Did they feel seen?

Did they know that their presence brought meaning to our lives?

Did we tell them?

Somewhere beyond the noise and chaos of daily life, this truth eventually becomes apparent to all of us: relationships are what matter. Love is what matters. The kindness we offer, the burdens we help carry, and the meaning we give to the lives of others are the only accomplishments that truly endure.

Amanda is not simply a classmate from veterinary school. She is part of my story. She walked beside me during years that shaped who I would become. We shared the exhausting days, the difficult examinations, the uncertainty, the laughter, and the dream of becoming veterinarians.

Those years created a bond that distance and busy schedules could never completely erase.

But bonds should not merely be remembered. They should be tended.

Friendship is not only something we feel. It is something we must express.

I hope Amanda knows that I care about her. I hope she knows that her life has mattered to mine. I hope she knows that I am grateful our paths crossed and that I have always been proud to call her my friend.

But hope is a poor substitute for having said it clearly.

Perhaps there is someone in your life you have been meaning to contact. Maybe it is a classmate, a mentor, a sibling, a former colleague, or a friend whose name still brings a smile when it appears on your phone.

Reach out.

Do not wait for a better time to send the text. Make the call. Tell them they matter to you. Tell them what you admire about them. Tell them how much value they have added to your life.

Do it awkwardly if necessary.

Do it imperfectly.

But do it now.

Life can change between one heartbeat and the next. In a single instant, the chance to say what should have been said may be altered…. or taken away entirely.

Today, I am praying for Amanda. I am praying for healing, restored function, clarity, strength, and the steady hands of those caring for her. 

And I am holding tightly to the hope that there will still be time to tell her everything I should have said before.

Amanda, you matter to me.

Your friendship matters.

Your life has added meaning to mine.

And I am so grateful you are part of my story.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Smells of Fall

There is a moment each year, usually somewhere between the last cutting of hay and the first cold snap, when the air in the Utah mountains shifts. You can smell it before you see it. Morning breeze drifts down the canyon with a new kind of sharpness that wakes something old and familiar inside you. It is the smell of fall, a fragrance stitched from endings, beginnings, and everything bittersweet in between.

Up in the aspens, the air carries the dry sweetness of leaves breaking down into the earth. Pine needles warm in the sun and release their resinous tang, mixing with the faint musk of elk and the spice of distant campfire smoke. And then there is sagebrush, clean, sharp, almost holy, the scent that has baptized generations of Utahns who claim both desert and mountain as home.

But it is the cottonwoods in late October that stop me every time. Their golden leaves shimmer like coins in the sunlight, and the air beneath them carries a smell unlike anything else on earth: damp bark, sweet decay, and the faint tang of river water. It is a scent that clings to memory, earthy and honest, reminding me of fence lines along muddy creeks, cattle moving through morning mist, and childhood afternoons spent raking leaves only to dive into them moments later. 

When the wind shakes the last few leaves loose, that smell seems to linger, one final breath of autumn before winter settles in.

Sometimes I drive the Nebo Loop with the windows down and the heater blasting, just to breathe it all in. The wind rushes through the cab, swirling with cold creek water and dust kicked up from red clay roads. It is a perfume no store could ever bottle, part nostalgia, part wilderness, and entirely Utah.

Down in the valley, the scent shifts again. Wood smoke rises from chimneys and mingles with fermenting apples and the sweetness of rain soaked fields. Horses still wear summer dust on their coats, but even they seem to sense the season turning. For a moment, everything holds still in the golden hush before winter takes the stage.

The smells of fall carry memories I never try to chase away: hunting trips with my father, gathering wood with my brothers, crisp mornings feeding livestock before school. Even now, a whiff of juniper smoke or wet alfalfa can pull me straight back to those quiet moments of youth when the world felt safe, predictable, and full of promise.

Fall smells different here than anywhere else. Maybe it is the blend of mountain air and desert sage. Maybe it is the mixture of memory and gratitude it stirs. Either way, I breathe deeper this time of year, trying to hold on to something that cannot be kept, only appreciated.

Because in Utah, fall does not just smell like change.

It smells like home.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: 9/11

This week marks twenty-five years since the morning the world changed.

Alan Jackson wrote a song that asked, “Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?” I know exactly where I was.

It was a bright morning in Trujillo, Peru. I was cramped into a tiny Tico taxi, my knees against the cracked vinyl seat, as the Monserrate neighborhood passed by: brown-and-white brick homes washed in sunlight and laundry fluttering from rooftop lines. Nearing the end of two years as a missionary for my church, I was headed to mission headquarters when the driver reached over and turned up the radio.

By then, Castellano was the language of my thoughts. Before the words fully registered, I heard the urgency in the newscaster’s voice. Describing the planes striking the towers, he used the verb clavar—to nail. That single word struck hardest, carrying violence, finality, and disbelief. Panic rose in my chest, followed by a hollow ache that settled in and remained.

In the days and weeks that followed, strangers stopped me on the street. Recognizing that I was from the United States, they offered condolences with a sincerity that surprised me. Peru had endured its own decade of terror in the 1990s, and its people understood what fear could do to a nation’s soul. Their kindness steadied me when home felt impossibly far away.

Being abroad that day was difficult. Yet I will always be grateful for the Peruvians who reached out—people who did not know me or owe me anything, but chose compassion anyway.

Humanity is a paradox. We are capable of unspeakable cruelty—of destroying cities, families, and futures. History offers ample proof. Violent extremist groups such as Al-Qaeda, which carried out the 9/11 attacks, have caused staggering harm and loss of life around the world. Our capacity for destruction is real and terrifying.

Yet we are also the species that rushes into a burning building to save a stranger, dives into a river for a dog, or kneels in the dirt to rescue a trembling kitten. We can destroy, but we also have a powerful instinct to protect.

On September 11, the world witnessed both truths.

May we never forget those who died, the families forever changed, and the first responders and military personnel who ran toward danger without hesitation. Their courage remains one of the clearest examples of humanity at its best.

That is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: More Than the Work We Do

There is danger in defining ourselves exclusively by our profession.

I am proud to be a veterinarian. Veterinary medicine has given me a life filled with purpose, service, and experiences I could never have imagined. It has allowed me to care for remarkable animals, walk beside people during some of their most difficult moments, and build friendships that reach far beyond the walls of an examination room.

Being a veterinarian is an important part of who I am.

But it is not all that I am.

That can be difficult to remember in a profession that asks so much of us. Veterinary medicine does not always remain neatly at the clinic when we turn off the lights. It follows us home in the form of unfinished cases, difficult decisions, unanswered questions, and animals we continue to worry about long after the appointment has ended.

There is always another patient who needs us. Another phone call to return. Another record to complete. Another problem waiting for an answer.

If we are not careful, the work can begin to consume not only our time but also our identity.

We start measuring our worth by the outcome of a case, the productivity of a day, or how much we can carry without asking for help. We become known to others, and sometimes to ourselves, only by the title attached to our name.

But none of us is one-dimensional.

We are parents and partners. Sons and daughters. Friends, neighbors, mentors, and students. We are gardeners, fishermen, writers, travelers, artists, musicians, and dreamers. These parts of us are not distractions from our professional lives. They are pieces of what make our lives whole.

One of the things I love to do is play the piano.

After a stressful day at the clinic, I sometimes sit down at the keys and begin to play. My hands, which may have spent the day performing surgery, examining animals, or wrestling with a particularly uncooperative patient, are suddenly asked to do something entirely different.

For a few moments, the demands of the day begin to fade. My breathing slows. My mind becomes still. The cases I have been replaying loosen their grip, and the notes fill spaces that worry had occupied only minutes before.

I am not playing for an audience. I am not trying to accomplish anything or prove anything. I am simply playing because I love it.

And perhaps that is precisely why it restores me.

The piano reminds me that there is more to life than the work I do. It reconnects me with a part of myself that does not depend upon a professional title, a successful outcome, or someone else’s expectations.

Every person needs something like that.

It may be music. It may be working in the garden, saddling a horse, walking through the mountains, painting, fishing, reading, cooking, or sitting on the porch with someone you love. The activity itself matters less than what it helps us remember: before we are professionals, we are people.

Our profession deserves our dedication, but it should never require the surrender of our entire identity.

In fact, the things we love outside veterinary medicine may be among the very things that allow us to remain in it. They give our minds a place to rest, our hearts room to breathe, and our lives a broader foundation. When one difficult case shakes us, we are reminded that our entire worth was never resting upon that case alone.

We do not become less committed veterinarians when we make room for the other parts of ourselves. We become healthier people and we are better able to serve, lead, listen, and care.

The piano does not take me away from veterinary medicine.

It helps me return to it renewed.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: My First Surgery 

I was raised on a small farm in Castle Dale, Utah, where we kept Guernsey milk cows, Suffolk sheep, and many varieties of chickens and pheasants. My daily chores included feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs. 

One day after school, I walked into the barn that housed the chickens. The barn was divided into three equal rooms: the first held stacked straw bales, and the second and third housed the chickens and pheasants. 

That afternoon, I found our calico cat nestled with her newborn kittens near the straw stack, close to the chicken coop door. There were seven kittens in all. As an 8-year-old—and still today—I found new babies of any kind exciting. I dropped down and began counting the tiny kittens, thrilled by the discovery. 

As I handled them, however, I noticed something wasn’t right. One umbilical cord had become wrapped tightly around a leg of each kitten. If I picked up one kitten, the entire litter followed as if they were chained together. I tried to loosen the cord with my fingers, but it was far too tight. Even as a little kid, I knew something had to be done. 

At that time, Castle Dale did not have a veterinarian. The only veterinary services available came on Thursdays, when a veterinarian traveled from Richfield. It was early afternoon, and my dad would not be home from work for a couple more hours. I had to figure out what to do on my own. 

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Swiss Army knife. It had a myriad of blades—nearly all of them unused—along with a toothpick and a small set of tweezers tucked into the handle. I opened the smallest cutting blade, bent down, and very carefully cut the umbilical cords away from each kitten. I used iodine to keep the procedure as clean as possible. 

The procedure was a success. All seven kittens survived. 

Fortunately, I no longer use my Swiss Army knife for surgeries. My surgical skills have been refined and perfected over the years, but I still carry the curiosity and passion that 8-year-old boy showed that day. I love being a veterinarian, and the satisfaction I felt long ago is repeated every time I am able to help save a life. 

I look back on that first surgical experience with fondness. It was an important milestone on the path to becoming who I am today. 

And that is my take! 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM 

I am pictured here with these kittens in 1988. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Frank the Turtle

On August 9th, my dear third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wikersham, passed away—and I’ve been reflecting on the incredible mark she left on so many of us.

Third grade was an exceptionally imaginative era of my childhood, largely thanks to her. I can still picture sitting at my desk in her classroom at Castle Dale Elementary, going through our daily morning routine. Part of that routine was reciting a poem together. Most were short, rhythmic, and easy to memorize—so much so that I can still recite many of them verbatim today.

One of my absolute favorites was about a spunky little reptile:

“There was a little turtle. He lived in a box.

He swam in a puddle. He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito. He snapped at a flea.

He snapped at a minnow. And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito. He caught the flea.

He caught the minnow. But he didn’t catch me!”

I can still see Mrs. Wikersham’s animated facial expressions as she led us through the dramatic hand motions. Back then, as a sheltered kid in a small rural town, the idea of a real-life snapping turtle felt like something out of a wild wilderness adventure.

That third-grade memory came rushing back to me recently following an urgent phone call at the clinic.

A panicked pet owner explained that her turtle, Frank, needed a health certificate and a physical exam before boarding an afternoon flight to a warmer state. She had called every clinic around, but no other vet was willing to examine a reptile on such short notice. While exotic pets aren’t my primary area of expertise, I couldn’t leave her stranded, so I reluctantly agreed to squeeze them in.

Moments later, I walked into the exam room and was met by the most innocent-looking creature imaginable. Frank was tiny, quiet, and possessed a pair of soft, wide eyes that peered up at me trustingly. I held his smooth shell in my hands, gave him a thorough checkup, confirmed he was fit to fly, and signed off on his official travel paperwork.

With the certificate signed, I handed the papers to his owner and wished them safe travels. As a final friendly gesture, I reached down to give Frank a gentle, affectionate pat on the top of his shell.

Big mistake.

Without a microsecond of warning, Frank lunged forward with lightning speed and clamped his beak down hard on the tip of my right index finger.

A shockwave of sharp, throbbing pain shot through my hand and radiated all the way up to my shoulder.

“Ouch!” I yelled, reflexively recoiling. “That really hurts!”

I stood there cradling my hand in complete shock. Frank sat there unbothered, his sweet, unassuming face entirely unchanged. It turns out Frank wasn’t quite the timid little traveler he pretended to be.

He might have snapped at that mosquito and caught that flea… but in the end, Frank the turtle caught me, too.

Thank you, Mrs. Wikersham, for the wonderful memories, the joy, and the lessons that stay with us forever.

And that is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Guided by Greatness

I’ve been fortunate to meet many brilliant minds in veterinary medicine. But only a few leave an imprint so deep that you carry it with you every single day.

Dr. Ahmed Tibary is one of them.

He is a world‑renowned theriogenologist — a pioneer in camelid reproduction, a gifted clinician, and a scientific force whose legacy will echo for generations. But before the accolades, before the textbooks, and before the Bartlett Award, he was simply… my mentor.

And then he became my friend.

I first met Dr. Tibary wide‑eyed and eager, unaware of how much I didn’t yet know. He had a way of making complex things make sense — not by simplifying them, but by elevating you. He believed in what I could become long before I had any reason to believe it myself.

He introduced me to camelids — but more importantly, he introduced me to possibility.

He taught me how to approach the unknown: in science, in species, and in people. How to be precise without being rigid, confident without being arrogant, and humble enough to let the animals teach us what we didn’t yet understand. He showed me how to lead with curiosity, compassion, and a commitment to both the science and the soul of veterinary medicine.

And sometimes, his mentorship came in the quietest moments.

Years ago, we shared an elevator — just the two of us. No audience, no fanfare. Somewhere between floors, he turned to me and said:

“One day, you’ll be president of the Society for Theriogenology.”

I laughed. I didn’t believe it — not even a little. I was just a student, still finding my footing. The idea felt impossible.

But he didn’t say it like a prediction. He said it like a fact.

That’s the thing about Dr. Tibary. He sees beyond the present moment. He sees potential before it blooms.

That passing comment — spoken in an elevator — stayed with me. It followed me through cases and conferences, setbacks and small victories. It lit a path I didn’t yet know I was on.

In 2017, I stood at the podium as President of the Society for Theriogenology — the very role he saw in me a decade earlier. As I looked out across the room filled with colleagues and friends, I thought of him. I thought of that elevator. And I thought of the power of belief.

Dr. Tibary didn’t just teach me theriogenology. He taught me how to see — not just what’s in front of me, but what’s within me.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of walking beside him — in lecture halls, clinics, and conference corridors from the Palouse to St. Louis. Listening. Learning. Laughing. (And make no mistake — Dr. Tibary is funny. Quietly. Brilliantly. He once told me camels were “designed by committee,” and I’ve never looked at them the same way since.)

Beyond traditional theriogenology, his mentorship helped me push into new frontiers. With his encouragement and technical insight, I developed assisted reproduction protocols for reindeer, white‑tailed deer, mule deer, water buffalo, and even bighorn sheep. These ventures were anything but straightforward — but he approached each challenge with curiosity and scientific rigor, never once treating these unconventional patients as anything less than worthy of our best efforts. His guidance gave me both the confidence and the competence to explore multispecies reproduction.

Someday, I hope I can be to someone else what Dr. Tibary has been to me. That, I believe, is the greatest tribute a mentor can receive — not just admiration, but continuation.

Thank you, Dr. Tibary. For your brilliance. For your kindness. For your quiet confidence in what I could become.

You believed in me.

And that made all the difference.

And That is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM