My Take Tuesday: More Than the Work We Do

There is danger in defining ourselves exclusively by our profession.

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

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

But it is not all that I am.

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

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

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

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

But none of us is one-dimensional.

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

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

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

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

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

And perhaps that is precisely why it restores me.

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

Every person needs something like that.

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

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

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

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

The piano does not take me away from veterinary medicine.

It helps me return to it renewed.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: My First Surgery 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The procedure was a success. All seven kittens survived. 

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

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

And that is my take! 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM 

I am pictured here with these kittens in 1988. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Frank the Turtle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He caught the mosquito. He caught the flea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Guided by Greatness

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

Dr. Ahmed Tibary is one of them.

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

And then he became my friend.

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

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

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

And sometimes, his mentorship came in the quietest moments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believed in me.

And that made all the difference.

And That is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: A Water Bowl and a Little Common Sense

Summer is here in full force. Temperatures this weekend will surpass 102 degrees here in Springville.

As a veterinarian, I enjoy summer. I enjoy seeing dogs riding in vehicles, families hiking mountain trails, and children tossing tennis balls for their four-legged companions. But summer also brings a predictable increase in emergency visits to veterinary clinics.

Many of them are entirely preventable.

Unlike people, dogs and cats do not cool themselves efficiently through sweating. They rely primarily on panting to regulate their body temperature. When temperatures climb into the 90s and beyond, it becomes much easier for them to overheat than many people realize. Some recover. Tragically, some do not.

One of the simplest things you can do for your pet is provide unlimited access to fresh, clean water and a shaded place to rest. On especially hot days, consider bringing pets indoors during the afternoon heat. Air conditioning is not a luxury for some animals—it can be lifesaving.

If your dog needs exercise, schedule walks during the early morning or late evening hours when temperatures are cooler. Midday walks may be comfortable for you, but they can be dangerous for your pet.

A good rule of thumb is the “seven-second test.” Place the back of your hand on the pavement for seven seconds. If it is too hot for your hand, it is too hot for your dog’s paws. Hot asphalt can burn sensitive paw pads surprisingly quickly.

And while we’re talking about heat, let’s address one of the most important summer safety messages.

Never leave a pet inside a parked vehicle.

Not for five minutes.

Not with the windows cracked.

Not while you “run in real quick.”

Last summer, I treated a Labrador who suffered heat stroke after being left in a car for just ten minutes. Thankfully, quick action saved his life, but not all pets are so lucky.

The temperature inside a vehicle can become deadly in a matter of minutes. Every summer, pets die from heat stroke after being left in parked cars. It is a heartbreaking and entirely preventable tragedy.

Knowing the signs of overheating can also save a life. Excessive panting, drooling, weakness, difficulty breathing, vomiting, diarrhea, collapse, or seizures should always be treated as an emergency. If your pet is showing these signs, move them to a cool area immediately and seek veterinary care without delay.

Certain pets are especially vulnerable. Brachycephalic breeds such as Bulldogs, Pugs, Boston Terriers, and Persian cats have a much harder time cooling themselves. Elderly pets, overweight pets, and those with heart or lung disease also face increased risks during hot weather.

Summer fun often means water activities as well. Many dogs love swimming, but not all dogs are natural swimmers. If you’re spending time around pools, lakes, rivers, or on boats, supervise pets carefully and consider a flotation device. After swimming, rinse chlorine, salt, and lake water from their coat and always provide fresh drinking water.

Summer also brings fleas, ticks, mosquitoes, and other unwelcome guests. Stay current on parasite prevention and check pets regularly after hiking or spending time outdoors. Prevention is almost always easier—and cheaper—than treatment.

Gardeners should be cautious as well. Fertilizers, herbicides, insecticides, and certain ornamental plants can pose significant risks to pets. Read labels carefully and keep animals away from treated areas until they are completely dry and safe. A curious nose can quickly turn a beautiful summer afternoon into an unexpected trip to the emergency clinic.

And then there are the backyard barbecues.

Many of the foods we enjoy are not pet-friendly. Fatty table scraps can trigger pancreatitis, a painful inflammation of the pancreas that may require emergency treatment. Alcohol can be toxic. Corn cobs, bones, grapes, raisins, onions, and certain desserts can all cause serious problems. As difficult as it may be to resist those pleading eyes, your pet is usually safest sticking to their regular diet.

Our pets give us their loyalty every day of the year. They greet us at the door. They accompany us on adventures. They make our homes happier places.

A little common sense and a little preparation can help ensure they enjoy summer just as much as we do.

Stay cool. Stay hydrated.

And if you’re headed outside today, don’t forget the water bowl.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Society for Theriogenology

Every profession has a place where its people gather—a place where friendships are renewed, ideas are exchanged, and the next generation is inspired. 

As I write this, I’m en route to Pittsburg, PA, for one of the highlights of my professional year—the annual conference of the Society for Theriogenology.

After years of virtual meetings and remote learning, gathering in person feels like a gift. The education is valuable, but the real magic happens between the lectures—in the hallway conversations, impromptu discussions, shared meals, and renewed friendships. These moments foster collaboration, inspire new ideas, and strengthen the professional community in ways that no virtual platform ever could.

This conference has been a summer tradition for me since 2007. The location changes every year, but the anticipation never does. I still count down the days until I can reconnect with friends and colleagues who share my passion for animal reproduction.

So, what exactly is theriogenology?

Theriogenology is the branch of veterinary medicine devoted to reproduction. It encompasses the physiology and pathology of male and female reproductive systems across species, along with veterinary obstetrics, gynecology, and andrology. In human medicine, it would take an OB-GYN, a neonatologist, and an andrologist to cover the same breadth of expertise expected of a single theriogenologist. From antelope to zebras and from embryos to parturition, the field demands curiosity, precision, and a deep appreciation for comparative biology.

My own journey into theriogenology began at Southern Utah University, where a mentor named Dan Dail introduced me to the discipline. He entrusted me with a research project examining the relationship between body condition scores and conception rates in synchronized beef cattle. That experience—and his mentorship—helped shape the course of my career and ultimately led me to veterinary school.

At Washington State University, I had the privilege of studying under Dr. Ahmed Tibary, a world-renowned theriogenologist whose influence reaches through textbooks, research publications, and generations of veterinarians. His comparative approach taught me to think critically and work through complex cases with confidence. We collaborated on numerous studies, particularly in camelid reproduction, and those years remain among the most formative and rewarding of my professional life.

Theriogenology has sharpened my clinical instincts and broadened my understanding of medicine. Whether I’m caring for cats and dogs in the clinic or working with elk, alpacas, or water buffalo, the principles I rely on trace back to this foundation. It is where science meets curiosity and where I feel most at home. If you’ve ever wondered how lessons learned from an alpaca might help a dog—or how studying reproduction in one species can inform another—that’s the beauty of comparative medicine. Comparative medicine is what makes my mind come alive.

In the lobby of Mountain West Animal Hospital, a small statue sits on a cabinet—a gift commemorating my service as president of the Society for Theriogenology in 2018. The statue depicts Nandi, the sacred bull of Hindu tradition and a symbol of purity and fertility. Represented as a Bos indicus bull adorned with gold and silver, Nandi’s origins trace back to the ancient Indus Valley civilization, where cattle played a central role in daily life. Even today, temples throughout India continue to honor him.

That statue is one of my most treasured possessions. More than a keepsake, it serves as a daily reminder of the journey I’ve taken and of the mentors, colleagues, and friends who have shaped that path.

If there is one quality that distinguishes reproductive specialists, in my experience, it is kindness. They are approachable, generous with their knowledge, and eager to help others succeed. In a profession that can sometimes reward ego, these veterinarians lead with humility. Many hold leadership positions at veterinary schools across North America, quietly influencing and inspiring the next generation of veterinarians.

I am proud to stand among them.

The older I get, the more I realize that careers are shaped less by titles and accomplishments than by mentors, friendships, and communities that help us become who we’re meant to be. This remains my favorite conference of the year. I look forward to learning, growing, and bringing new knowledge back to my practice. Most of all, I am grateful for the privilege of spending a career in the endlessly fascinating and ever-evolving field of theriogenology.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Roadie, the Rattlesnake, and the Rest of Us

There are people who spend their entire lives walking a single road.

And then there are people like Dr. Kevin Fitzgerald, who somehow manage to build a few extra roads along the way—simply because the journey is too interesting to travel just one.

The first time I ever heard Kevin’s name, it wasn’t in a veterinary hospital. It came up during a conversation about Animal Planet.

Someone casually said, “You know… the veterinarian who used to be a bouncer for the Rolling Stones.”

I laughed.

I assumed they were making it up.

They weren’t.

Dr. Kevin Fitzgerald, DVM, PhD, ABVP—and enough additional letters to make most veterinarians wonder where he found room to write them all—is one of those rare people who seems almost impossible to summarize.

He worked as a roadie for Elvis Presley. He provided security for The Who. And, after a well-timed conversation with Keith Richards—yes, that Keith Richards—he traded the backstage chaos of rock and roll for the wonderfully unpredictable chaos of veterinary medicine.

That single decision changed the course of his life.

Kevin earned his veterinary degree from Colorado State University and became one of the defining figures at a veterinary hospital in Denver. Along the way, he became board-certified in canine and feline practice, earned a PhD in reproductive endocrinology, authored more than fifty scientific publications, lectured around the world, championed wildlife conservation, and introduced millions of people to emergency veterinary medicine through Emergency Vets on Animal Planet.

Those are remarkable accomplishments.

But they aren’t what I remember most.

During the summer of 2006, I volunteered at the Veterinary Leadership Experience in beautiful Post Falls, Idaho.

I figured I’d spend the week setting up chairs, carrying boxes, or stuffing registration packets—one of the countless volunteers quietly helping the event run smoothly.

Late one morning, someone handed me a different assignment.

“Drive to the Spokane airport and pick up tonight’s guest speaker.”

Simple enough.

Except it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, we’d been given the wrong flight information.

By the time I arrived at the airport, our guest had already been waiting for more than three hours.

Three hours.

My stomach dropped.

Being chewed out wasn’t exactly a new experience for me, but I’d never managed to inconvenience someone of this stature before. During the entire drive to Spokane, I rehearsed apology after apology, wondering exactly how badly this was about to go.

When I finally found him, he was sitting quietly near baggage claim.

I introduced myself, shook his hand, and apologized more times than I can remember.

He smiled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“These things happen.”

Then he said something I’ve carried with me ever since.

“It takes one second to be kind and two seconds to get angry. I take the shortest path.”

That was Kevin Fitzgerald.

During the drive back—and again later when I returned him to the airport—not once did he mention the delay.

Instead, he asked about me.

Where had I grown up?

Why had I chosen veterinary medicine?

What did I hope to do with my career?

He listened with genuine curiosity.

Not politely. Not out of obligation.

He actually cared.

Here was a man who had spent eleven seasons on national television.

A comedian with a devoted following.

A veterinarian recognized around the world.

A scientist.

A conservationist.

A man who had stood backstage with some of the biggest names in rock and roll.

And yet, for those two car rides, he somehow made me feel like I was the most interesting person in the vehicle.

I was just a veterinary student.

A volunteer.

One more face in the crowd.

But Kevin made me feel important.

He made me feel like my story mattered.

I’ve never forgotten that.

Neither should we.

I’ve often thought that Kevin represents two different kinds of medicine.

One heals the body.

The other heals the spirit.

He has a scalpel in one hand and a microphone in the other.

He has repaired broken bodies during the day and lifted weary hearts at night—using humor, stories, and just enough mischief to remind us that laughter has therapeutic value too.

He has been a clinician.
A teacher.
A mentor.
A conservationist.
An entertainer.

But above all, he has been consistently kind.

And in the end, I suspect that may be his greatest accomplishment.

So here’s to Kevin Fitzgerald. The roadie who became a veterinarian. The herpetologist equally comfortable handling rattlesnakes and hecklers.

The man who reminded a nervous veterinary student that kindness is almost always the shortest path between two people.

No matter how many letters follow your name…
No matter how many awards line your office wall…
No matter how remarkable your career becomes…

People will remember how you made them feel.

Thank you, my friend.

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

My Take Tuesday: Hazel and the Skunk

As a teenager growing up in the small town of Castle Dale, I looked forward to summer at the end of each school year. Summer meant freedom—from homework and from sitting at a school desk.

For me, a perfect summer day included vanilla ice cream, snow cones, and strawberry shortcake. Tranquil Castle Valley evenings offered frequent opportunities to grill hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks, alongside corn on the cob and thick slices of juicy Green River watermelon.

Summertime also meant hard work. In addition to irrigation and farm chores, several elderly widows in Castle Dale would hire my siblings and me to mow their lawns each week.

Hazel was my favorite.

Her small house stood just north of the new recreation center. She felt like family to me. Her friendliness and kindness were evident every time I mowed her lawn.

Though modest in size, her yard was lush and carefully maintained. Along the south side of the property, tall trees stood like sentinels, shielding the house from the persistent Castle Valley wind. Beneath their deep green canopy lay a perfectly manicured garden, with neat rows of Swiss chard, chives, radishes, peas, carrots, spinach, and lettuce.

Her lawn was also difficult to mow. Flowers and bushes demanded precision with the mower and edger. Despite my best efforts, I would occasionally graze her chives, and the unmistakable onion scent would immediately betray me.

“Oh no—you hit my chives!” she would say.

I suspect she planted extra each year, knowing a few would inevitably fall victim to my mower.

After finishing, Hazel would bring out red punch and cookies. I would sit on her living room couch, enjoying the refreshments week after week. She would ask about my life and share stories of her Seely and Livingston pioneer ancestors who helped settle Utah and build the Salt Lake Temple.

Hazel loved cats. A small door in her kitchen led to the backyard, allowing them to come and go freely. A large bowl of cat food sat in the center of the kitchen for any passing feline.

One day, Hazel mentioned how quickly the food was disappearing. She had been refilling the bowl three or four times a day, only to find it empty each time she returned.

As I sat on the couch with a clear view into the kitchen, I noticed movement near the bowl. I turned to look.

The largest skunk I had ever seen waddled up and began gorging itself.

“Hazel!” I shouted. “That’s not a cat—that’s a big, fat, humongous skunk!”

“My laws!” she gasped. “Get it out of here!”

I jumped up, and the startled skunk made a dash for the door. Its considerable girth prevented anything resembling speed. Its belly nearly dragged along the floor as it lumbered away.

When it reached the cat door, the front half slipped through easily. The back half did not.

As the animal forced itself through, it simultaneously unleashed a voluminous spray from its scent glands—in my direction. The blast filled the entire kitchen instantly.

If you’ve never experienced skunk spray up close, it is unforgettable—a thick, oily, sulfurous assault on the senses. There is nothing worse than having that smell inside your nose.

Hazel and I quickly retreated out the front door. We propped open the kitchen door and set a fan on the floor to air out the house.

Then we laughed—hard—for hours.

Hazel passed away shortly after Memorial Day in 2003. I miss her dearly.

Each summer still brings back fond memories of Hazel, that obese skunk, and the all-you-can-eat Mephitis buffet.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: When the Pavement Burns

I love summertime.

I love the smell of campfire smoke clinging to a hoodie after a night beneath a sky full of stars. I love the thunder of hooves at the rodeo, the twang of a guitar drifting across a county fairground, and the gentle splash of a fishing line breaking the surface of still water. I love that people seem to smile a little more in June and July. Maybe it is the sunshine. Maybe it is the way backyard barbecues, family reunions, and long evenings somehow bring us all a little closer together.

Summer has always felt like a season of freedom.

But as a veterinarian, I have learned that summer also carries a shadow.

Every year, I see it arrive at the clinic door.

It comes in the form of panting, trembling dogs whose bodies have become furnaces they can no longer cool. Their tongues are bright red. Their eyes are glazed. Their hearts race desperately beneath coats that trap heat they cannot escape. Heat stroke does not knock politely. It barges in without warning.

And it does not just claim the old or the frail. It takes the healthy, the young, and the energetic. The dog who was “only going to be in the truck for a minute.”

The dog who chased the ball one throw too many.

I will never forget a black Labrador brought to me after a family barbecue. Earlier that afternoon, he had been the life of the party—running with the kids, stealing hot dogs from the edge of the grill, tail wagging nonstop. He was doing exactly what Labradors do best: enjoying every second of life.

Until he wasn’t.

By the time his family carried him into the clinic, he was already slipping away. His temperature was 107 degrees. Despite every effort, we could not save him.

That is one of the heartbreaking things about dogs.

They love too hard and quit too late.

They will keep running long after their bodies are begging them to stop. They will keep following you, chasing the ball, hiking the trail, and soaking up every moment of your attention. They do not complain. They do not ask for a break.

And sometimes, by the time they show us they are in trouble, it is already too late.

So here is my summertime plea.

If the pavement is too hot for your bare feet, it is too hot for their paws.

If it is too hot for you to sit comfortably in a parked vehicle with the windows cracked, it is too hot for them—even for “just a minute.”

If your dog is panting heavily, drooling excessively, slowing down, stumbling, vomiting, or acting confused, pay attention. Stop the activity. Find shade. Offer cool water. Begin cooling them and seek veterinary care immediately.

And do not let a few clouds or a gentle breeze fool you. Utah heat has a way of sneaking up on both people and pets.

I want your dogs to enjoy summer just as much as you do. I want them at the fishing hole, wagging their tails beside the campfire, or curled up on the porch after a day at the lake. But I also want them alive. Safe. With you.

So, when the thermometer climbs and the pavement begins to burn, be their voice. Be their common sense. Be their protector when they are simply too happy to know better.

There is nothing better than summertime.

Let’s make sure everyone gets to enjoy it.

And that is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM