My Take Tuesday: Sven

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

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

Sven was the second kind.

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

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

Our ritual.

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

You wake up expecting them to be there.

You walk outside expecting to see them waiting.

You look forward to the small, ordinary moments.

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

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

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

He was the best of everything good inside of me.

He was my reflection.

My clone.

My soul.

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

But good things rarely do.

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

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

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

He taught me how to live without fear.

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

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

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

But he isn’t there.

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

And it inspires me to continue.

To live a little braver.

To love a little deeper.

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

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

Because they are never just animals.

They are our companions.

Our teachers.

Our quiet witnesses to the lives we live.

Sven was all of that to me.

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

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

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

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

Waiting for me to come through the gate.

It will be a joyful reunion.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM