My Take Tuesday: Dasher, Dancer, and the One Who Pranced All Over Me

Many of the pictures I share are of our resident reindeer at Mountain West Animal Hospital. Sven and Yuki are basically Instagram influencers in velvet coats—docile, photogenic, and absolute hams for the camera. They adore kids, pose like seasoned pros, and Sven has an inexplicable fondness for the color pink. 

But let’s get one thing straight: not all reindeer are like Sven and Yuki. Some… are less snuggly. Especially during breeding season, when testosterone hits like a double shot of espresso on an empty stomach.

When male reindeer enter rut, they undergo a dramatic personality shift—think Dr. Jekyll to Mr. “I-Will-Skewer-You-With-My-Antlers.” As their testosterone climbs, their velvet-covered antlers harden and the velvet sloughs off—abruptly. Fresh blood on newly exposed antlers may look like a scene from a holiday horror film, but it’s NOT painful. By then, the antlers have no sensation. Just beauty, brawn, and unbridled rage.

A couple of years ago, I got a call from a reindeer farmer in northern Utah. His bull had injured the base of his growing antler. My first thought was this was terrible timing. August heat + fresh blood = flies, maggots, infection, and the stuff veterinary nightmares are made of.

I headed straight from the clinic to the farm. And because I’m the kind of nerd who likes to be prepared, I’d tossed my external hard drive into my front pocket before leaving—my veterinary version of a pocket protector.

The bull was in full rut: snorting, stomping, and glaring as though we’d personally offended him. It took three of us to restrain him while I cleaned and treated the wound. His antlers were massive, the kind of natural weaponry that makes you respect the airspace around them.

I had just finished when—of course—he broke loose.

He lowered his head and came straight for me.

I’d love to tell you I executed some graceful dodge-roll maneuver. I did not. I stood there like a deer—ironically—caught in the headlights, clutching a syringe and a bottle of iodine like they were going to help.

The impact was immediate and violent. The bull plowed into me and sent me flying. I hit the ground so hard my diaphragm decided to take a brief sabbatical. I scrambled frantically to catch my breath,  but it felt someone had pushed the pause button on my lungs.

When I finally sucked in a wheezy breath, pain exploded down my left side. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out what remained of my external hard drive. It was shattered—absolutely obliterated.

But that little chunk of tech probably saved my life. Without it, those antlers would have punctured my lung. Instead, I walked away with two cracked ribs, a bruised ego, and a new appreciation for data storage devices.

I eventually staggered to my feet, reeking of iodine and regret, but alive.

Moral of the story? Don’t let the festive antlers fool you. A rutting reindeer is not Rudolph. He’s the final enemy in a holiday-themed video game. Honestly, I’d take my chances with a Jersey bull in a bad mood—and that’s saying something.

So if you ever see a male reindeer grunting, snorting, and peeing on himself like it’s a party trick—stay away.

You’ve been warned.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM