My Take Tuesday: What Should I Feed My Pet?

One of the most common questions I get asked as a veterinarian is simple on the surface but surprisingly complicated.

“Doc, what should I feed my pet?”

If only the answer were as simple as the question.

The truth is, there is no universal diet that is perfect for every dog or every cat. Age, breed, activity level, medical history, metabolism, allergies, and body condition all matter. What works beautifully for one pet may not be appropriate for another.

That’s why I prefer to evaluate each pet individually and have a conversation with the owner about the best options. Nutrition is not a one-size-fits-all decision.

At Mountain West Animal Hospital, many of our pets eat well-researched commercial diets from companies such as Purina, Hill’s Science Diet, Royal Canin, and Iams. These companies invest enormous resources into nutritional science, feeding trials, quality control, and veterinary research. There are certainly other good options out there, but these brands remain among the most extensively studied in the world.

When it comes to nutrition, science matters.

The Grain-Free Myth

One of the biggest misconceptions I see today is the belief that dogs should eat a grain-free diet.

Many people assume that if a food contains grains, it must somehow be unhealthy. In reality, grains such as rice, oats, barley, and corn are excellent sources of energy, fiber, vitamins, and essential nutrients.

In fact, several years ago veterinary cardiologists began noticing an alarming pattern: dogs eating certain boutique or grain-free diets were developing dilated cardiomyopathy (DCM)—a serious and potentially fatal heart disease. Research is ongoing, but the association raised serious concerns about diets that substitute unusual ingredients like lentils, peas, and chickpeas in place of grains.

Most dogs do not need grain-free food, and unless a pet has a medically diagnosed allergy—which is actually quite rare—there is usually no benefit to eliminating grains.

In many cases, grain-free diets are marketed more toward human trends than toward canine nutritional needs.

The Pet Food Aisle Problem

If you have ever walked down the pet food aisle of a store, you know how overwhelming it can be.

Dozens of brands.

Hundreds of formulations.

Labels promising everything from “ancestral diets” to “wild instincts.”

Logic might suggest that if a product is on the shelf, it must be safe and nutritionally sound.

Unfortunately, that’s not always the case.

The pet food industry has grown into a multi-billion-dollar marketplace, and marketing sometimes moves faster than science. Labels can be persuasive, but they don’t always reflect rigorous nutritional research.

That’s why veterinarians often encourage pet owners to look beyond the label and consider who formulated the food, how it is tested, and how it is manufactured.

A Few Practical Guidelines

While no food choice is completely risk-free, there are several principles that can dramatically improve your odds of choosing a safe and healthy diet.

1. Choose a brand backed by science.

Look for companies that employ board-certified veterinary nutritionists, conduct feeding trials, and maintain strict quality control standards. The companies mentioned earlier—Purina, Hill’s, Royal Canin, and Iams—have decades of research behind them.

You often get what you pay for in pet nutrition.

2. Be cautious with boutique or exotic diets.

Foods that emphasize unusual ingredients—kangaroo, alligator, lentils, or other novel proteins—may sound appealing, but they are not always supported by the same level of nutritional research.

Exotic ingredients don’t automatically mean better nutrition.

3. Supplements are rarely necessary.

If you are feeding a complete and balanced commercial diet, your pet is already receiving the vitamins and minerals it needs. Adding extra supplements without veterinary guidance can actually disrupt nutritional balance.

Occasional treats are fine—but moderation is key.

4. Fresh and home-prepared diets require expertise.

Fresh, home-cooked, or raw diets are increasingly popular. While some pets do well on carefully formulated homemade diets, most recipes found online are nutritionally incomplete.

If someone truly wants to pursue a home-prepared diet, it should be formulated with the help of a board-certified veterinary nutritionist.

The Bottom Line

More than $100 million is spent each year studying pet nutrition, and the scientific process continues to refine how we feed our animals.

Despite the flashy marketing trends that come and go, one truth remains consistent:

Well-researched commercial diets remain the safest and most reliable nutrition for most pets.

But nutrition is personal. Each animal is unique.

The best place to start is a conversation with someone who knows your pet’s health history and can help guide that decision.

Because when it comes to feeding the animals who share our homes and our lives, guessing is never as good as science and experience.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Circulus Plenus

My parents have five children.

Five very different paths. Five very different personalities. Each one of us are highly driven and disciplined.
Our paths led in five different directions—law, veterinary medicine, music, agricultural economics, and education.
My parents believed in us long before we understood what we were capable of becoming.

While we were growing up, there was one non-negotiable in our home: piano practice.

Every single day. Thirty minutes. No exceptions.

I’ll be honest—I hated it.

There were a thousand things I would have rather been doing. Chores on the farm felt more appealing some days. Moving irrigation pipe. Digging ditch. Feeding animals. Even pulling weeds seemed like a better use of time than sitting at a piano bench, working through scales and songs that didn’t yet mean anything to me.

But my mother… she never wavered.

Patient. Steady. Unrelenting in the most loving way.

She made sure each one of us sat down and practiced. One at a time. Day after day. Year after year.

Looking back now, I don’t remember the arguments or the resistance nearly as much as I remember her consistency.

And somewhere along the way… something changed.

The very thing I resisted became something I now cherish.

I love playing the piano.

What once felt like a burden has become a refuge.

That’s the funny thing about discipline—it often disguises itself as inconvenience in the moment but reveals itself as a gift over time.

Each of my siblings took those lessons and applied them in different ways. Different careers. Different lives. But the same underlying principle: do your best. Show up. Put in the work.

And then there’s my little brother, Seth.

Admittedly, I am biased. But if you know Seth, you share my admiration and love for his unique personality and talent.

He received his Doctor of Musical Arts from the University of Kansas. He is an example of professional excellence. He is a world class organist.

But his success is not the product of natural talent alone.

It is the result of thousands of hours—decades—of deliberate, focused practice.

Three decades of showing up.
Three decades of refining his craft.
Three decades of choosing discipline over convenience.

That is what excellence looks like.

Today, he teaches over 30 students in his studio, passing on not just musical knowledge, but the very principle that shaped him—hard work, done consistently over time.

A while back, my mother—who once sat beside five children, making sure we practiced every day—decided to take organ lessons.

From Seth.

Let that sink in.

A full circle moment in its purest form.

And then, last weekend something remarkable happened.

At 70 years of age, my mother sat down and played the world-famous Tabernacle organ at Temple Square.

An instrument as complex and intimidating as any in the world.

Most people wouldn’t even consider learning something new at that stage of life—let alone mastering an instrument of that magnitude.

But she did.

Because that’s who she is.

Patient. Disciplined. Willing to try. Willing to grow.

The same woman who once required us to practice… is still practicing. Still learning. Still becoming.

And in that moment, as she played, I couldn’t help but think—

This is what it was all for.

It was about becoming the kind of person who keeps showing up… no matter your age, no matter your stage of life.

Because the greatest lessons we were ever taught were never about piano keys.

They were about persistence and growth. They were about believing that it’s never too late to begin.

And that… is the kind of legacy that echoes far beyond any instrument.

And that is My Take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Salt Grass and Alkali

I was raised on a farm in the small town of Castle Dale, Utah.

Summers were filled with the busiest of days… days marked by the near-constant changing of water. These long, sunburned afternoons were spent tending alfalfa fields and pastures just south of town. The rhythm was simple: set a tarp dam in the main ditch to turn the water, open each furrow by hand, watch until the flow ran true and even… then move on and do it again. There was a quiet satisfaction in it… watching water find its path, knowing you had a hand in it.

On this day, I finished a water change and found myself in a hurry to get home. I don’t remember why. Maybe it was dinner. Maybe it was nothing at all. But I remember the feeling… that urgency that convinces you shortcuts are smarter than patience.

That field stretched wide… a full square mile… and right through the middle of it ran a drainage ditch. Now, anyone who has spent time in Emery County knows what that means. Alkali. Salt grass. The kind of ground that looks solid…but it isn’t.

The wise path was to walk the perimeter.

But wisdom wasn’t what I chose that day.

Instead, with a shovel slung over my shoulder and a confidence far greater than my experience, I stepped straight toward the swamp.

I had a bit of an arrogant swagger about me. It was, after all, just a few yards of marshland. I’d seen worse. I’d handled more.

Or so I thought.

I took two steps.

Just two.

And in that instant, the land reminded me who was in charge.

The mud swallowed my boots like they had never belonged to me. The brine was thick, black, and foul-smelling…. alive with mosquitoes and deerflies that rose in clouds as if they had been waiting just for me. I tried to shift my weight, to pull free, but every movement sank me deeper.

Panic has a way of arriving quickly.

I drove my shovel into the mud, searching for something… anything… solid to push against. But there was no bottom. The shovel disappeared just as quickly as my confidence had.

That’s when instinct took over.

I pulled my feet free from my boots just as the muck began to pour over the top. I didn’t save the boots. I saved myself.

I emerged from that swamp covered in mud, bitten, soaked, and more humbled than I had been in a long time.

And then came the walk.

A long, quiet, barefoot walk in nothing but wet socks… each step squishing with a reminder of the decision I had just made. Everything was completely silent. Just the rhythmic sound of my wet feet… and time enough to think.

I made it back to my truck. I felt dejected, embarrassed… and very grateful to be out of that mud.

That same summer, a cow wandered into that very swamp.

She didn’t make it out.

And that has never left me.

Because what felt like a harmless shortcut to me… was something far more dangerous than I had understood.

There are moments in life where the lesson is immediate, uncomfortable, and unforgettable. This was one of them.

Every choice we make… no matter how small it seems… carries weight.

Some choices simply cost us a pair of boots and a little pride.

Others cost far more.

The truth is consequences are not optional. They are not negotiable. They follow every decision we make… faithfully and without exception.

That day in a swamp in Emery County, I learned something I have carried with me ever since:

The path around the perimeter may be longer… but it is often safer.

And shortcuts… especially the ones fueled by impatience or pride… have a way of teaching lessons we don’t soon forget.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Quiet Disease

It doesn’t make a sound.

It doesn’t limp.

It doesn’t usually wake anyone up at 2 a.m.

And yet, it’s one of the most painful, most common, and most overlooked diseases I see in dogs and cats every single day.

Periodontal disease.

By the age of three, most dogs and cats already have some degree of dental disease. Let that sink in for a moment. Not when they’re old. Not when they’re “slowing down.”

Three years old.

It usually begins quietly. A little tartar. A faint odor that gets dismissed as “normal dog breath.” A bit of redness along the gumline. Nothing dramatic. Nothing urgent.

But beneath the surface, something very different is happening.

Bacteria begin creeping below the gums, slowly destroying the structures that hold the teeth in place. Bone erodes. Infection develops. Pockets form around the roots of the teeth—areas that can become deeply painful every time a pet chews, picks up a toy, or crunches a piece of kibble.

The remarkable thing about animals is how well they hide their discomfort. They don’t complain. That’s the hard part. 

They keep eating.

They keep wagging their tails.

They keep purring.

So, we assume everything must be fine.

But often, it isn’t.

Over the years, I’ve examined mouths where teeth were literally floating in infection. I’ve removed fractured, diseased teeth from pets who never missed a meal and never once showed an obvious sign of pain. I’ve seen dental infections severe enough to impact the heart, liver, and kidneys.

And almost every time, the owner says the same thing:

“I had no idea.”

That’s the tragedy of dental disease.

It hides in plain sight.

But there is good news.

Dental disease is one of the most preventable conditions in all of veterinary medicine.

Simple steps—regular brushing, dental diets, appropriate chews, and periodic professional cleanings—can dramatically slow the progression of disease. Preventive care is far easier, less invasive, and far less costly than treating advanced infection once teeth become loose and require surgical extraction.

I often explain it this way:

Prevention is maintenance.

Treatment is repair.

And repair is almost always more expensive, more involved, and harder on everyone—especially the pet.

I understand the hesitation. Dental procedures require anesthesia. They require planning and investment. They don’t always feel urgent when your pet still seems happy and playful.

But waiting rarely saves money. It simply allows the disease to progress.

Healthy mouths mean:

• less pain

• better appetite

• longer tooth retention

• lower risk of systemic disease

• better overall quality of life

And for our pets, quality of life is everything.

They don’t choose daily brushing.

They don’t schedule dental cleanings.

They don’t know prevention is even possible.

That responsibility falls to us.

So, if your dog’s breath could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon… if your cat drools, paws at the mouth, or avoids crunchy food… or if it’s simply been a few years since anyone has taken a close look at those teeth—it might be time.

Because the quiet diseases are the ones that steal comfort the longest.

And in veterinary medicine, one of the greatest gifts we can give our patients isn’t dramatic, last-minute heroics.

It’s preventing the pain they never had the words to tell us about.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Sven

There are animals that pass through our lives. We tend to them for a while. 

And then there are animals that become part of our lives. They take up permanent residence in our hearts. 

Sven was the second kind.

Sven was my first reindeer. In early 2014, at five years old he arrived at Mountain West Animal Hospital, and from that day forward he became part of my daily rhythm and my life.

For over eleven years since that time, he shared the quiet spaces of my days. Every morning and every evening, without fail, he would meet me at the gate. I could almost set my watch by him. Most days he carried a stick proudly in his mouth, as if he had retrieved it just for the occasion. It was his greeting. His ritual.

Our ritual.

We love our animals in ways that are difficult to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it. They quietly weave themselves into the routine of our lives until their presence feels as natural as breathing.

You wake up expecting them to be there.

You walk outside expecting to see them waiting.

You look forward to the small, ordinary moments.

And somehow, without realizing it, those moments become the best parts of your day.

Sven was elegant in a way that only a mature steer reindeer can be. His antlers carried themselves like a crown, and his posture had a quiet nobility to it. He was stoic, steady, and confident. There was never fear in him. Only calm strength.

Over time, I began to realize that Sven represented something deeper to me.

He was the best of everything good inside of me.

He was my reflection.

My clone.

My soul.

For more than a decade, we greeted each other at that gate—morning and night—through winter snow and summer heat. Through long workdays and quiet evenings. Through the rhythm of seasons that seemed, at the time, like they would last forever.

But good things rarely do.

On December 18, 2025, Sven passed away from heart failure.

Even as a veterinarian—someone who understands life and death better than most—nothing prepares you for the silence that follows the loss of a companion who has been part of your daily life for so long.

Animals teach us many things if we are willing to listen. Sven taught me more than most.

He taught me how to live without fear.

He taught me how to greet each day with quiet confidence.

And in the end, he taught me how to leave this world with kindness and dignity.

Every morning when I walk past that gate, I still expect to see him there—antlers tall, stick in his mouth, ready to greet his old friend one more time.

But he isn’t there.

Still, I feel his presence—his spirit, his courage—in the wind that moves across the back yard and in the quiet moments when the world slows down just enough for memory to speak.

And it inspires me to continue.

To live a little braver.

To love a little deeper.

To greet each day the way Sven greeted me—without hesitation, without fear, and without regret.

To each of you who has lost a beloved pet, I understand your pain. I know the silence that follows their absence and the emptiness that settles into the places their routine once filled.

Because they are never just animals.

They are our companions.

Our teachers.

Our quiet witnesses to the lives we live.

Sven was all of that to me.

And if love truly leaves an imprint on this world—as I believe it does—then somewhere beyond the reach of our sight, my old friend is still standing there.

Somewhere, beyond the Rainbow Bridge, I believe I will see my Sveny Boy again.

Until that day comes, I will carry him with me—in the quiet strength he showed, in the courage he lived with, and in the kindness with which he left this world. I commit to continue, to live a life worthy of the loyalty and devotion he gave so freely. It is the least any of us can do for the animals who give us their whole hearts.

And when that day comes, I imagine he will be standing there just as he always was—antlers tall, calm eyes watching, and a stick proudly in his mouth.

Waiting for me to come through the gate.

It will be a joyful reunion.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

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