My Take Tuesday: The Hands and Hearts Behind Veterinary Medicine

Some people make hard things look effortless.

Every day in veterinary medicine, we move between joy and heartbreak. We celebrate new life. We help ease suffering. We witness recoveries that feel miraculous. And sometimes we sit quietly with a family as they say goodbye to a friend they have loved for years.

Sometimes all before lunch.

The animals who come through our doors cannot tell us where it hurts. The people who bring them in are often scared, worried, and looking for answers.

Our job is to care for both.

And some of the very best people I know are the ones standing beside me while we do it.

This week is National Veterinary Technician Week, and I want to recognize five women who help make Mountain West Animal Hospital what it is: Katie, Codi, Sarah F., Olivia, and Sara H.

Katie and Codi are credentialed veterinary technicians. That title represents years of education, training, and clinical skill. It represents a commitment to mastering a profession that demands both knowledge and judgment.

But what matters most about Katie and Codi cannot be captured by a credential.

I trust them.

I trust them when a patient is under anesthesia. I trust them when a case becomes complicated. I trust them when something feels wrong and needs another set of experienced eyes. I trust them with the patients people love most.

Every veterinarian knows how much that trust matters.

I am a better veterinarian because they are part of my team.

The same is true of Sarah F., Olivia, and Sara H.

They are often the first reassuring voice a worried client hears and the gentle hands that help a frightened animal feel safe. They answer phones, clean kennels, handle emergencies, juggle schedules, comfort families, and somehow keep the day moving forward when it feels like everything is coming at once.

The hospital would not function without them.

I wish every pet owner could see what happens after they leave.

I wish they could see a team member sitting on the floor beside a recovering patient, speaking softly while a groggy dog slowly wakes up from anesthesia.

I wish they could see the quiet concern when a patient isn’t progressing the way we hoped.

I wish they could see how excited we get when a critically ill animal finally turns a corner.

And I wish they could see the tears. Because there sure are tears.

Sometimes we lose patients despite everything medicine can offer. Sometimes those patients have been part of our lives for years. Sometimes saying goodbye hurts more than we would ever admit.

Then a few minutes later, another exam room door opens. The next patient needs us, too.

Most people see the puppies and kittens. The happy reunions. The wagging tails. They don’t always see the aching backs. The bites and scratches. The missed lunches. The emotional weight that comes with being responsible for lives that cannot speak for themselves.

And they certainly don’t see all the blood, urine, feces, and vomit.

There is plenty of that, too.

Veterinary medicine is messy, exhausting, humbling work.

But beneath all of it is something beautiful.

People who show up day after day and choose to care.

It certainly isn’t easy.

It is not glamorous.

But it matters.

I have been in this profession long enough to know that a veterinary hospital is not defined by its building, its equipment, or the name on the sign out front.

It is defined by its people.

Their character. Their competence. Their compassion. Their willingness to do the right thing, even when it is hard.

The doctor’s names may be on the medical record, but the care our patients receive is the work of many hands and many hearts.

I could not do this alone.

More importantly, I would not want to.

Katie, Codi, Sarah F., Olivia, and Sara H., thank you.

Thank you for the hard days, not just the good ones.

Thank you for the patience, the skill, the sacrifice, and the compassion you bring to this hospital every single day. You make a difference in the lives of animals who will never know your names and in the lives of families who may never fully realize all you did for them.

But I do.

I see the work.

I see the sacrifices.

I see the heart.

And I am deeply grateful.

To our clients: the next time you’re at Mountain West Animal Hospital, take a moment to thank these women.

They deserve it.

And to my team, there is one thing I hope you never forget:

There is no one I would rather do this work with than you.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The First Weeks That Shape a Lifetime

There are very few things in this world with more persuasive power than an eight-week-old puppy.

A little round belly. Puppy breath. Feet that seem to belong to a different dog entirely. And a face capable of convincing an otherwise sensible adult that chewing on a brand-new pair of shoes is not destruction, but personality.

At least the first time.

Bring a puppy into a home, and life changes almost immediately. Toys appear where no toys existed before. A water bowl claims permanent residency in the kitchen. Someone finds themselves standing in the backyard at two in the morning in mismatched pajamas, wondering whether everyone involved fully understood the commitment they enthusiastically agreed to three days ago.

Meanwhile, the puppy is thrilled.

A leaf moved.

Life is good.

As a veterinarian, I enjoy seeing new puppies. More than that, I appreciate what those appointments represent. A family is beginning a relationship with an animal that may share their lives for the next decade or longer.

That little bundle of curiosity and oversized paws will grow up alongside children. It will wait by doors, ride in cars, greet people after difficult days, and become woven into the ordinary routines that eventually define a family.

But first, we have to survive the stage where everything goes in the mouth.

Those first weeks matter more than many people realize. A puppy is learning how to live in our world, and we have a responsibility to make that world understandable.

One of the earliest stops should be the veterinary hospital.

There is much more happening during that first visit than simply giving vaccinations. We perform a thorough examination, discuss nutrition, look for parasites, and begin building a preventive health plan. We talk about behavior, growth, development, and the questions that tend to accumulate somewhere between bringing a puppy home and discovering the first puddle behind the couch.

Puppies require a series of vaccinations because the protective antibodies they receive from their mothers gradually decline while their own immune systems mature. 

They also need appropriate parasite treatment and prevention.

Looking healthy and being healthy are not always the same thing.

Establishing a veterinary relationship early gives everyone a better start. I’d much rather help a family prevent a problem than meet them for the first time in the middle of one.

Of course, everyone wants to show off a new puppy.

Who can blame them?

There ought to be some sort of civic award for introducing that much cuteness into the community.

Still, we need to be thoughtful about where those little feet go.

Dog parks and other areas frequented by unknown dogs can expose puppies to infectious diseases before they have developed adequate vaccine protection. Your veterinarian can help you choose safer outings based on your puppy’s vaccination status and the disease risks in your area.

That doesn’t mean waiting until every vaccine is complete before introducing a puppy to the world.

In fact, safe, positive socialization should begin early.

Invite a few friends over. Introduce common household sounds gradually. Allow gentle handling and short, pleasant exposures to new surfaces, environments, and experiences. With guidance from your veterinarian, arrange interactions with healthy, appropriately vaccinated dogs in safe settings.

The goal is not to maximize excitement.

The goal is confidence.

Let the puppy set the pace.

A frightened puppy rarely benefits from being pushed closer to whatever is causing fear. Often, a little distance, a little patience, and another opportunity on another day accomplish far more than forcing the issue.

Handle paws gently. Touch ears. Open the mouth briefly. Make these experiences positive.

Small lessons learned early can make a lifetime of grooming, nail trims, and veterinary visits much easier.

And remember, the vacuum cleaner has never needed to explain itself to a puppy before.

Give them both some grace.

House training requires much the same approach: patience, consistency, and realistic expectations.

Take your puppy outside frequently, especially after waking, eating, and playing. Reward success immediately. Pay attention to patterns.

An eight-week-old puppy is not plotting revenge against your carpet.

The puppy needed to go.

Somebody missed the announcement.

Clean up the accident, adjust the routine, and move forward. Punishment rarely teaches the lesson we think it does.

There is something remarkably humbling about discovering that a seven-pound animal has exposed significant flaws in your household’s communication system.

It also helps to get down on the floor and see the world from a puppy’s perspective.

There are electrical cords, medications, socks, children’s toys, and dozens of other hazards that we stopped noticing years ago because we walk past them every day.

A puppy notices everything.

And much of it, apparently, deserves a taste.

Keep dangerous items out of reach. Provide appropriate chew toys. Supervise closely. 

When introduced properly, a crate can become a comfortable place to rest and feel secure when constant supervision isn’t possible, provided the puppy’s needs for companionship, exercise, and bathroom breaks are being met.

And please don’t give your puppy an old shoe to chew and then become upset when a new shoe suffers the same fate.

The puppy doesn’t understand depreciation.

A shoe is a shoe.

Yesterday, chewing one earned praise.

Today, chewing another has prompted a family emergency.

We are asking puppies to learn our rules. The least we can do is make those rules consistent.

As they grow, other conversations will follow: training, exercise, dental care, nutrition, and decisions regarding spaying or neutering. Your veterinarian can help guide those choices based on the individual dog in front of you.

But through all the advice, appointments, schedules, and checklists, I hope people remember one important thing.

Enjoy this part.

Take the photographs.

Laugh when those oversized feet get tangled together. Sit on the floor for a few extra minutes. Appreciate the enthusiasm with which a puppy approaches a world where almost everything is new.

Because someday, that same dog will know the sound of your car long before it pulls into the driveway.

There will be a favorite place to sleep. Familiar routines. A well-worn path through the house. A trusted head resting against your knee.

The children may grow taller.

The house may grow quieter.

The years will move far faster than you expected.

Through an astonishing number of changes, that dog will simply keep showing up.

If you’re fortunate enough to share many years together, gray will eventually appear around the muzzle. Getting up will take a little longer. The puppy who once sprinted through the house carrying your sock like a championship trophy may someday need help climbing the stairs.

In my work, I have the privilege of seeing both ends of that story.

I see the excitement of the first visit.

And I see the tenderness of the last.

Between those two appointments lies a lifetime of ordinary moments that become extraordinary only when we look back and realize how much they mattered.

That is why these first weeks deserve our attention.

Protect their health.

Teach with patience.

Build their confidence.

Give them a home where they feel safe, understood, and loved.

The puppy days can feel awfully long when you’re standing outside in your pajamas at two in the morning.

The years rarely do.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: A Purpose Worth Serving

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

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

That trust is something I never take for granted.

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

I also want to reassure you about something important.

I am not going anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

I feel a responsibility to give something back.

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

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

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

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

To my clients, thank you.

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

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

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

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

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Wide Open Spaces

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

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

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

Space.

Freedom.

Possibility.

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

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

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

Growth rarely happens there.

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

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

So today, I remind myself to unlatch the gate.

To step beyond the familiar fences.

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

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

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

It is time to explore.

It is time to dream.

It is time to discover.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Text We Mean to Send

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

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

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

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

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

Will she regain the function she has lost?

Will there be lasting cognitive impairment?

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

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

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

Did I reach out often enough?

Was I a good friend?

Does she know how much I care about her?

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

We mean to send the text.

We intend to make the call.

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

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

We assume there will always be more time.

Until there isn’t.

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

Positions mean nothing.

Wealth means nothing.

Titles mean nothing.

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

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

What will remain is how we made people feel.

Did they know they mattered?

Did they feel seen?

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

Did we tell them?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reach out.

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

Do it awkwardly if necessary.

Do it imperfectly.

But do it now.

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

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

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

Amanda, you matter to me.

Your friendship matters.

Your life has added meaning to mine.

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

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Smells of Fall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It smells like home.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: 9/11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On September 11, the world witnessed both truths.

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

That is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: More Than the Work We Do

There is danger in defining ourselves exclusively by our profession.

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

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

But it is not all that I am.

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

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

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

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

But none of us is one-dimensional.

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

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

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

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

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

And perhaps that is precisely why it restores me.

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

Every person needs something like that.

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

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

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

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

The piano does not take me away from veterinary medicine.

It helps me return to it renewed.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: My First Surgery 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The procedure was a success. All seven kittens survived. 

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

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

And that is my take! 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM 

I am pictured here with these kittens in 1988. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM