My Take Tuesday: The Fragility of Life

Just west of Castle Dale, the sky above Horn Mountain turns the color of cinnamon on clear summer evenings as the sun slips behind the western horizon over the country I call home. The air is rich with the scent of freshly cut alfalfa and grass, mingled with roses, cottonwoods, sagebrush, and lilacs.

If you travel west along Bott Lane, just beyond the tall poplar trees, you will come to a parcel of ground homesteaded by my great-great-grandfather. It has passed from one generation to the next, from fathers to sons, and through all the years it has remained in our family.

On the eastern edge of that land, the silhouettes of a Ford tractor and a Hesston Hydroswing swather were familiar fixtures on many summer evenings of my childhood. Seated high on that tractor was my uncle, Jerry Bott.

Uncle Jerry was a giant in every sense of the word. He stood well over six feet tall, but it was his gentleness that made him truly remarkable. His quiet voice, his deliberate words, and his unfailing kindness were among his greatest gifts. Twice each day, before I went to milk our cows, I would stop by his house. He became a constant in my life—an anchor as I grew from a boy into the man I would become.

One evening nearly three decades ago, Uncle Jerry was cutting the first crop of hay. The season’s first cutting is always the most demanding. The grass stands tall and thick, and the swather requires constant attention to keep the knives and rollers from plugging.

This is also the time of year when ring-necked pheasants are nesting. The hens sit so still and so faithfully that even the thunder of machinery and the trembling earth beneath them cannot drive them from their eggs. Sometimes they are injured or killed, and the nest—whether filled with warm eggs or newly hatched chicks—is left defenseless against hawks overhead and the foxes and raccoons lurking in the Russian olives along Cottonwood Creek.

As the sun disappeared behind the towering cliffs of Horn Mountain, I stood barefoot on my parents’ lawn, watching for the familiar two-toned tan GMC Sierra. My hero was coming home.

When Uncle Jerry stepped from the truck, he carried a brown paper grocery sack tucked beneath one arm. Instead of walking to his house across the street, he came directly toward me.

“Isaac,” he called in his deep, gentle voice, “I have something for you.”

He handed me the sack.

Inside, wrapped carefully in a green towel, were eight olive-colored eggs.

“These are pheasant eggs,” he said. “They need someone to take care of them.”

Then he looked at me and added words I have never forgotten.

“Isaac, I know you’ll do a good job.”

I stood there holding the bag as he turned and walked back across the street.

How do you hatch pheasant eggs? I wondered.

My incubator was nothing fancy—just a Styrofoam box with a small heating element inside. I learned that pheasant eggs incubate for twenty-three days, so I adjusted the temperature and humidity and laid the eggs gently inside.

For three weeks, I turned those eggs three times each day.

And somehow, all eight hatched.

The chicks were tiny and perfect, their soft tan feathers marked with dark brown stripes running neatly down their backs.

I could hardly contain my excitement.

“Uncle Jerry,” I said, “I did it! The eggs hatched!”

He smiled.

“That’s wonderful, Isaac. I knew you could do it.”

Those simple words filled me with a sense of light and possibility. In that moment, I felt capable of anything.

The world, with all its power and wisdom—its libraries, its evidence, its accomplishments—shrinks into insignificance when compared to the quiet lesson my uncle taught me that summer evening: life is fragile, precious, and worthy of our care.

Over the years, Uncle Jerry repeated that same encouragement as I made my way through the brambles and thorns of life. When I graduated from high school, college, and eventually veterinary school, his faith in me never wavered.

His advice was simple and profound.

“Isaac, find your passion. Cultivate it. Work hard. Be the best you can be. Then share it with the world.”

In late 2016, my beloved Uncle Jerry passed away. His death left tears in many eyes and an ache in every heart in our family.

I like to imagine that somewhere beyond the clouds, in the cinnamon-colored sky west of Castle Dale, a precious angel now resides.

Some things never change. Other things change us forever.

That summer evening changed me.

The lesson Uncle Jerry taught me was not lost.

Every day, as I care for my four-legged patients, I remember the immense value of life. Some lives are saved. Others are lost. In every case, I am reminded how important it is for someone to step forward—to care for the helpless and to speak for those who have no voice.

This is the lesson my dear Uncle Jerry taught me.

It is a responsibility I hold sacred.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Hippopotamus

Years ago, I was swimming in Lima, Peru, when I saw one of my favorite breeds of dog paddling through the pool—a Peruvian Inca Orchid.

For those unfamiliar, the Peruvian Inca Orchid is a remarkable breed. Sleek. Ancient. Elegant. Completely hairless. They are native to Peru. Normally, they weigh around 40–50 pounds.

This one had apparently moved to a much larger neighborhood.

He was a magnificent specimen—round, buoyant, and glistening in the Peruvian sun like a well-fed river creature with excellent self-esteem. His owner was helping him swim, and he was doing his best, rolling through the water with all the grace of a canoe full of potatoes.

Just then, a small child walked to the edge of the pool. He stopped. He stared. His little brow wrinkled with the honest confusion only a child can get away with.

Then he looked up at his mother and asked, “Is that a hippopotamus?”

His mother laughed and said, “No, son. It’s just a large dog.”

And technically, she was right.

But I saw the boy’s point.

From his angle, that hairless, barrel-bodied dog drifting through the water looked less like a pet and more like something that ought to be featured on a nature documentary.

Children have a gift for saying the thing everyone else is trying not to say. Adults dress things up. We soften the edges. We say “big-boned,” “stout,” “well-conditioned,” or “food motivated.”

A child just looks at the pool and says, “hippopotamus.”

And sometimes, there is wisdom in that.

Veterinary medicine has taught me that beauty comes in many shapes. Some animals are graceful. Some are majestic. Some are aerodynamic.

But every one of them has a story, a personality, and someone who loves them.

That big Peruvian Inca Orchid may not have been built like a show dog, but he was loved enough to be swimming in a pool in Lima with his owner right beside him. And that says something.

Sometimes love looks like ribbons and perfect posture.

Sometimes it looks like a hairless dog doing laps while a child questions his taxonomic classification.

Either way, it made me smile.

And that oversized Peruvian Inca Orchid truly did look vaguely Hippopotamus amphibius.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

There is something profoundly humbling about standing at the edge of loss. It strips away pretense. It reminds us what actually mattered all along.

What matters is how people felt around us.

Did they feel seen?
 Did they feel loved? 
Did they feel less alone?

Around Ken, people felt less alone. And that may be one of the greatest compliments a person can leave behind.

I suspect Heaven feels a little steadier tonight.

A little kinder.

A little more like home.

Because Ken Peay arrived there.

On this side of the sky, men like Ken do not come along very often.

He was as tough as steel.

Not pretend tough. Not performative tough. But genuinely tough—the kind forged slowly through hardship, responsibility, sacrifice, and years of standing firm when life demanded everything a man had to give.

From 1970 to 1973, Ken was stationed in West Germany during one of the most dangerous periods in modern history. His assignment was to cross into East Germany and obtain reconnaissance photographs. Every mission carried risk. Every crossing carried uncertainty. On one occasion, his vehicle was narrowly missed by active gunfire.

Most people could never fully comprehend the pressure of living under that kind of constant threat.

But Ken endured it quietly.

And when his military service ended, his service to others did not.

He returned home and dedicated 29 years to the Utah Highway Patrol. He rose to become head of the Utah County service office and later served as lieutenant commander of the Mounted Patrol during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He also served as bodyguard to Governors Bangerter and Matheson.

It is the kind of life story most people only read about.

A life marked by courage, by duty, by sacrifice, and steadiness. 

But what strikes me most about Ken is that despite everything he accomplished, he never carried himself as though he were above anyone else. There was no arrogance in him. Only quiet confidence.

As a child, I was obsessed with He-Man action figures. My favorite was always Man-At-Arms—the commander of the royal guard. He had piercing eyes, a thick mustache, and represented strength, loyalty, and unwavering dedication. To me, he embodied what a protector should be.

The first time I met Ken Peay, I remember thinking I had just met Man-At-Arms in real life. He possessed all the same qualities. He had strength without cruelty, authority without ego, and loyalty without condition. He was a man’s man in the truest sense of the phrase.

And somehow, this mountain of a man became my friend. I honestly still struggle to express how much that friendship has meant to me.

Ken volunteered hundreds upon hundreds of hours helping care for the reindeer herd at Mountain West Animal Hospital. And I say this sincerely: he is the only person I ever trusted completely with those animals.

Reindeer are sensitive creatures. They read people remarkably well. Nervous energy unsettles them. Impatience agitates them.

But Ken had this remarkable calmness about him.

Even the reindeer sensed it.

His observant eye, steady demeanor, and quiet patience brought peace wherever he went.

Twice, I needed help transporting reindeer from Oregon to Utah—a grueling trip of nearly 900 miles each direction. And twice, Ken never hesitated. He hooked up his own gooseneck trailer, climbed into his truck, and simply showed up.

That was Ken.

He just did what needed to be done.

I could tell stories like this for hours. Stories of loyalty. Stories of kindness. Stories of quiet sacrifice that nobody else ever saw. 

Because the thing about Ken was this: He loved through action.

Cowboys rarely announce their love in speeches or dramatic displays. They express it through reliability. Through service. Through showing up when storms roll in.

And Ken showed up.

Every single time.

I think one reason this loss feels so heavy is because people like Ken begin to feel permanent to us. We subconsciously believe they will always be there. Always standing steady against the wind. Always ready to help. Always carrying strength enough for everyone around them.

But eventually even the strongest cowboys face their final storm.

In late 2023, Ken was diagnosed with multiple myeloma—the same relentless cancer that claimed Governor Matheson years earlier. A cruel disease that attacks the bone marrow and immune system.

And yet, true to who he was, Ken faced that diagnosis the same way he faced every challenge in his life.

Head-on.

With grit forged in the trenches. With humility. With courage to lead when the path is uncertain.

He pulled his hat down tight and endured chemotherapy, radiation, pain, exhaustion, and eventually a stem cell transplant. Treatments that would break many people physically and emotionally.

But not Ken.

He endured it all with the stoicism of a cowboy.

And through that experience, he taught me something I will carry the rest of my life:

Toughness is not the absence of pain.

Toughness is refusing to surrender to it.

He faced it all directly.

And in doing so, he taught the rest of us how to stand a little taller ourselves.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that the greatest men are rarely the loudest men.

They are the dependable ones.

The ones who answer the phone.

The ones who help move cattle in a storm.

The ones who quietly pull suffering onto their own shoulders, so others do not have to carry it alone.

The ones whose integrity remains intact long after nobody is watching.

That was Ken Peay.

And this world desperately needs more men like him.

Ten years ago, my marriage began to fall apart, I found myself walking through one of the most painful and disorienting seasons of my life. There are hurts so deep that they are difficult to even put into words. The pages of that chapter were hard to read, let alone live.

And through all of it, Ken listened.

Then he listened some more.

He never rushed me. Never minimized the pain. Never tried to offer shallow answers to wounds that were far too deep for clichés. He simply sat with me in it.

I still remember his words:
“Isaac, I am so sorry.”

And he meant it.

You could feel the sincerity in his voice. You could feel his heart breaking alongside yours. There was something profoundly healing about being truly heard by someone who genuinely cared.

Ken had that gift.

He helped me navigate some very dark days. In many ways, he helped me slowly turn the pages of my life that at the time felt almost impossible to read. When grief, disappointment, and uncertainty clouded everything ahead, he offered steadiness, compassion, and friendship without condition.

That kind of presence in another person’s life is sacred.

And I will always be grateful that when I needed someone most, Ken was there.

A few months ago, I found myself at the oncology center for one of my regular therapeutic phlebotomies for hemochromatosis. Sitting in the chair beside me was my friend, Ken Peay. For four long years, Ken endured the kind of treatments that test a person physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The oncology center had become part of his life in a way none of us would ever choose.

When he saw me there, his face changed immediately. He was deeply concerned.

“Isaac, what are you doing here?” he asked.

I explained that I was there for routine phlebotomy treatments related to iron overload. But even then—even while carrying his own burdens, his own uncertainty, his own fight—Ken’s focus turned completely toward me. He wanted to know if I was okay. He wanted to know how he could help.

I remember sitting there thinking how remarkable that was.

Here was a man walking through years of cancer treatment, yet his first instinct was concern for someone else sitting in the neighboring chair.

That was Ken.

He possessed a rare kind of goodness—the kind that does not announce itself loudly. The kind that quietly reveals itself in hospital rooms, difficult days, and sacred little moments when most people would understandably be consumed by their own suffering.

But Ken never seemed to live that way.

Even in hardship, he looked outward.
Even in pain, he carried compassion.
Even while fighting his own battle, he was trying to lift someone else.

That was the kind of man he was.

And I will never forget it. 

Ken, I want you to know something.

I love you very much.

You shaped my life more than you probably ever realized.

Your example mattered. Your friendship mattered. Your loyalty mattered.

You taught me what it means to endure with dignity. How to serve quietly.

How to remain steady in the storm.

You left fingerprints on my heart that time itself will never erase.

And while today our hearts break at saying goodbye, I cannot help but imagine that somewhere beyond this life, you are finally at peace.

No more pain. No more hospitals. No more treatments. No more storms to weather.

Just open country.

And I imagine you there now—

Strong once again.

Sitting horseback. 

Collar turned up.

Hat pulled low.

Finally, home.

Cowboys like Ken never truly leave us.

Part of them remains behind in every life they touched.

And though today Ken rides farther ahead than the rest of us can yet follow, I believe with all my heart that someday, down the trail, we will see our friend again.

I love you, my dear friend. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza

Trujillo: City of Eternal Spring

Where desert hush meets ocean’s breath,
Trujillo rises, defying death—
A city shaped by wind and time,
By ancient hands and truths sublime.

Adobe walls of Chimú remain,
Etched with whispers of sun and rain.
Fingerprints pressed in earthen clay,
Still warm with stories of yesterday.

Chan Chan stretches, vast and wide,
A kingdom carved by the ocean’s tide.
Corridors echo with footsteps gone,
Yet carry the pulse of a people on.

The huacas stand in solemn tune—
Temples of sun, temples of moon.
Moche hands once shaped the sky,
With ritual, rhythm, and asking why.

The coastal plain—both stark and kind,
A paradox etched in earth and mind.
Where sugarcane bends in emerald rows,
And desert wind forever blows.

The Moche River threads its way,
A lifeline born of distant spray.
Through valleys carved by hope and hand,
It breathes out life across the land.

Beyond it all, the Pacific Ocean calls,
Endless blue that rises and falls.
Once bearing sails of conquest near,
Now whispers calm to those who hear.

Surfers trace what ships once knew,
Seabirds stitch the sky in view.
Salt and sunlight kiss the shore,
Where past and present meet once more.

In plazas bright with colors bold,
Balconies gleam in wood and gold.
Each lattice carved, each shadow cast,
A quiet dialogue with the past.

The Trujillo Cathedral stands in patient grace,
A sentinel of time and place.
Its weathered stones, both worn and wise,
Have watched the centuries drift like skies.

At the Plaza de Armas the city finds its frame,
Four roads converge, like spokes to a flame—
Pizarro, Independencia, Orbegoso, Almagro aligned,
Each bearing the weight of a people and time.
They gather as one at the heart of it all,
Where footsteps have answered history’s call.

Yet spring eternal crowns this land,
With gentle breeze and tempered sand.
No harsh extremes, no bitter claim—
Just steady warmth, a constant flame.

And somewhere here, beneath this sky,
A younger soul once questioned why—
Why hearts are drawn to heal and mend,
Why broken lives we strive to tend.

Among these streets, these winds, this light,
A path was set, though out of sight.
Not in thunder, nor grand decree—
But quiet clarity… becoming me.

Trujillo lives—both old and true,
In ancient clay and morning dew.
A place that gives, then gently brings
The courage found in humble things.

And though I’ve wandered far from her eternal spring,
Trujillo, Peru’s gentle echo still remains in everything.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Tempus Fugit

This week marks seventeen years since I graduated from veterinary school. Seventeen years! And still, it feels both like a lifetime ago and like it happened just yesterday.

I remember standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the most brilliant, compassionate, and driven individuals I’ve ever known. We were full of hope, determination—and caffeine—ready to take on the world with our hearts in our hands and stethoscopes around our necks.

Today, those classmates are scattered across the globe, leaving indelible marks on veterinary medicine—as oncologists, internal medicine specialists, zoo vets, epidemiologists, clinical pathologists, mixed animal practice owners, and tireless advocates for animal and public health. Their impact is extraordinary. I feel a quiet pride in having walked beside them during those formative years.

As for me—I could never have predicted the journey these seventeen years would bring.

I’ve had the rare opportunity to consult in eight countries and twenty-seven states, working across thirty-nine species in reproduction alone. I’ve performed more than 50,000 small animal exams, contributed yearly to scientific literature, and recently authored my first textbook chapter. I’ve also helped grow a thriving practice.

Along the way, I’ve been challenged, humbled, mentored, and continually inspired.

Yet above all these milestones, it’s the quiet, ordinary moments that have brought the most joy. The wag of a tail after a hard-won recovery. The warm look of relief on a client’s face. The first breath of a newborn calf in the early dawn. These are the miracles disguised as routine. And if there’s one lesson that rises above the rest, it’s this: the secret isn’t chasing the extraordinary—but finding it in the everyday. 

This profession has demanded much—but it has given more. It has taught me how to listen, how to persevere, how to hold both life and death in the same gentle hands. It has filled my days with purpose and meaning. The path hasn’t always been smooth, but it has always been sacred.

One of my greatest joys has been mentoring and speaking with veterinary students across the country. I often tell them: lean into what makes you different. Don’t look outward for validation—look inward for authenticity. Success isn’t measured by being better than others; it’s measured by becoming better than who you were yesterday.

Just glance at your thumb. That spiral of ridges—your fingerprint—is a singular marvel, unmatched in all of human history. A quiet reminder that no one else can offer the world what you can. Your perspective, your voice, your courage, your way of caring—these are your tools. Learn to use them with intention, and you’ll never lack direction.

To my mentors and colleagues—thank you for shaping me. To the clients and animals who trust me—thank you for teaching me. The work is often hard, but the joy runs deep. I still love what I do. I’m living my passion, and I step into each new day with gratitude and wonder.

Tempus fugit—time flies. But what a remarkable flight it’s been.

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

Sunday Stanza: The Road Calls

Blacktop ribbons stretch and spin,

under wheels that never quite settle in.

The night leans heavy, the cold cuts deep,

yet promises made are the ones I keep.

A collar’s slip, a hoof’s wrong turn,

a whispered call when the barn lights burn.

Through sleet and sorrow, rain, and roar,

I answer knocks at the midnight door.

A foal down hard, a heifer breached,

a frantic voice just out of reach.

I bring my hands, my tools, my heart—

to help where hope begins to part.

A life built not on gold or gain,

but on moments cradled in hands and rain.

A lamb’s first cry, a colt’s first stand,

the quiet weight of a trusting hand.

Sometimes it’s blood, sometimes it’s grace,

a tear-streaked hug in a muddy place.

To save a life, to ease the pain—

that’s why I do this, night, or rain.

There are miles to forget, and miles I won’t,

patients I’ve saved and ones I don’t.

But in every mile, in every ache,

beats a stubborn heart that will not break.

Years blur past in dashboard light,
Trading rest for one more fight.
The ones I’ve lost still ride with me,
Ghosts of grace and memory.

I drive the dark with hope held fast,

A vet, a voice, until the last.

Not for glory. Not for fame.

‘Cause the road still calls my name.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The Itch Is On!

Spring in Utah County is a welcome awakening.

As winter loosens its grip, the world breathes again—green pushing through the soil, blossoms opening to the sun, and birds filling the morning air with song. It’s a season that stirs something hopeful in all of us.

And yet… for some, spring carries a different kind of awakening.

For me—and for generations of my family—it signals the return of allergies. The sniffling. The sneezing. The relentless itching. Atopy, that inherited tendency toward hypersensitivity, has been a faithful (and unwelcome) companion in our lives. Grass, alfalfa, flowers—nature’s beauty has always come with a cost.

I remember a rosebush just outside my bedroom window growing up. Each spring, it bloomed with striking beauty… and brought with it nights of misery. I’d lie awake, eyes burning and swollen, a cold washcloth draped across my face, hoping for relief that rarely came. On one particularly bad night, I wrote in my journal: “Today more allergies, oh I hate them.”

It was a simple sentence—but an honest one.

Those early experiences shaped something in me—because now, I see that same misery in my patients.

Allergies are one of the most common conditions I treat as a veterinarian. But in pets, they don’t look like sneezing and watery eyes. They show up as scratching, chewing, rubbing, head-shaking… and often, painful ear infections. I see dogs with paws worn raw, skin inflamed, sometimes even bleeding. The itch becomes their entire world—an unrelenting distraction they cannot escape.

And it’s heartbreaking.

When our pets suffer, they suffer deeply. In many cases, far more than we do—because they don’t understand why.

The good news is this: we have more tools than ever to help them.

Managing allergies often starts at home. Simple measures—like frequent vacuuming, using electrostatic cleaning tools, and improving air filtration—can significantly reduce environmental allergens. And while it was once thought that frequent bathing might harm the skin, we now know the opposite is often true. Regular bathing—sometimes even daily for severe cases—can help wash allergens off before they trigger a reaction. For many pets, sprays or wipes can be a practical alternative.

Food can also play a role. Many allergic reactions stem from proteins—beef, dairy, eggs, soy, even fish. When food allergies are suspected, a structured elimination trial can help identify the culprit and guide us toward a safer, balanced diet.

And then there are newer therapies—targeted, precise, and often remarkably effective. One of these is Cytopoint, an injection designed to block the very signal that tells a dog to itch. By neutralizing Interleukin-31, it can provide meaningful relief—and, in many cases, restore comfort and quality of life.

But perhaps the most important message is this:

Don’t let them suffer in silence.

If your pet is showing signs of allergies, partner with your veterinarian. Together, we can tailor a plan specific to your pet, your environment, and the season at hand.

Because when we quiet the itch, we give them something invaluable in return—peace.

And in doing so, we often find a little more of it ourselves.

And that is my take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Beneath Empyrean Skies

I stepped outside where the night runs wide,
past fence line, gate, and tree,
where the world falls off to a whisper
and the sky remembers me.

No city hum, no restless drum,
no flicker of borrowed light—
just a pasture dark and breathing slow
and a sky stitched full of night.

It spilled above like a saddle blanket
thrown soft on a cooling horse,
each star a nail in a timbered sky
set firm by a steady force.

The Milky Way—like powdered chalk
on a blackboard brushed by time—
ran crooked and true from ridge to ridge,
a trail without reason or rhyme.

I tipped my hat to that endless spread,
to the quiet it carried down,
the kind you feel in your chest and bones
when there ain’t another soul around.

And I thought of nights from long ago
on a truck hood warm with day,
in Emery County fields where the alfalfa grew
and the busy world felt far away.

We’d point at stars we couldn’t name,
draw lines that didn’t quite meet,
but somehow knew in that open dark
There was holy ground beneath our feet.

Funny thing, how a man can grow—
fill his days with weight and care,
chasing clocks and fixing things,
till he forgets what’s always there.

But the sky doesn’t hurry, and it doesn’t explain,
it doesn’t argue, it doesn’t pretend—
it just hangs those lights in quiet rows
like it’s done since the command, “Begin”.

And standing there, I felt it plain,
as sure as a calf finds its dam—
that the same hand that shaped that endless night
still keeps a steady hold on man.

No sermon spoke, no choir sang,
no page was turned or read,
just a stillness deep as a winter field
and a peace that softly spread.

So I lingered there a minute more
than a busy man might choose,
letting the weight of the world slip off
like dust from a well-worn boot.

Then I turned for home through the quiet dark,
past shadow, fence, and tree—
but I carried a piece of that endless sky
that had, for a moment, carried me.

And if you’ve never stood where the night runs wide
and the stars fall thick and slow—
well, there’s truths out there you won’t find anywhere
but only where most people don’t go.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The Privilege of the Work

Today’s My Take is written for veterinarians, but its message may resonate with anyone who takes a moment to read it.

There are days in this profession when the weight of it feels heavy.

Heavy in the exam room when the news isn’t good.

Heavy in the truck on the drive home after a case that didn’t turn out the way you hoped.

Heavy when the people we try so hard to help meet us with anger instead of gratitude.

Every veterinarian knows those days.

You remember the calf that wouldn’t stand, no matter how hard you tried.

The old dog whose eyes said it was time long before the owner was ready to hear it.

The surgery that kept you awake the night before… and the outcome that stayed with you long after.

And sometimes, if we’re honest, it isn’t the medicine that weighs on us the most.

It’s the words.

The accusation that you “didn’t care.”

The online comment from someone who has never held a stethoscope but is certain they know more than you.

The client who forgets that behind the scrubs and coveralls is a person who chose this work because they care deeply.

Those moments can make even the strongest among us question why we keep doing it.

But I would remind you of something simple.

Ours is a noble profession.

Long before any of us sat in a lecture hall or stood in a surgery suite, this work was carried by men and women who rose before daylight, drove muddy roads, and walked into barns, backyards, and pastures… doing the best they could with what they had.

They didn’t do it for applause.

They did it because an animal was hurting.

And someone had to show up.

That is the thread we inherited.

Every time you kneel beside a patient who cannot speak for itself…

Every time you steady a nervous owner with calm words and steady hands…

Every time you stay ten minutes longer, think a little harder, or try one more idea when the easy answer would be to walk away…

You are carrying that thread forward.

Veterinary medicine will always ask a lot of you.

It will ask for your intellect.

It will ask for your patience.

It will ask for your heart.

But in return, it offers something few professions ever can…

The quiet knowledge that your work matters.

That somewhere tonight, a horse is breathing easier…

A dog is resting comfortably…

A cow is standing with her calf…

A family has one more year with the animal they love…

Because you showed up.

And you did your best.

That is not small work.

That is not ordinary work.

That is the privilege of the work.

So, when the hard days come… and they will… remember this:

Try a little harder.

Be a little better.

Not for the applause.

Not for the approval of strangers.

But because the animals deserve it.

Because the profession deserves it.

And because the person you became when you took that oath deserves it too.

Veterinarians are not perfect.

But day after day, in clinics and barns and surgery suites across this country, they keep showing up. They keep caring. They keep trying again tomorrow.

And that simple act… showing up, caring, trying again…

That is what makes this profession one of the finest callings a person can choose.

It is a privilege to do this work.

And I am proud to stand among those who do it.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Half Hitch, Whole Drag

I straddled the chute in the dust and the gloom,
With a Simmy cross cow that spelled certain doom.
She was red as a branding-iron’s mean little kiss,
With a twitch in her eye that spelled nothin’ but risk.

The calf was a-comin’, all hooves and no head,
So, I looped on my chains like the good books have said.
Two half hitches—one high, one low on the leg—
Then I braced for the pull like a man on a keg.

But that ol’ rusty squeeze chute had seen better days,
It groaned like a banshee, then blew in a blaze.
The cow lit out like her tail was on fire,
And me? I was snagged in that fetal attire.

One wrist in the loop, and the other flailin’,
I skidded behind like a dog that was trailin’.
We tore through the barn in a dust-eatin’ dance,
My boots left behind like abandoned romance.

About fifteen yards, I rode that red beast,
Like a rodeo clown at a cowboy’s last feast.
Then finally I wriggled my left hand free—
And lay in the straw where my pride used to be.

The calf made it out with a moo and a sneeze,
The cow tossed her head and sauntered with ease.
And me? I learned quick ‘bout the strength of one chain—
And the humblin’ effects of bovine disdain.

If you pull calves in a barn with no floor,
And the chute looks like it’s from nineteen aught four—
Take heed of my tale, let this lesson remain:
Always check your equipment… and go easy on the chain.

DocBott