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

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