I just returned from Chicago. I was privileged to attend the Veterinary Leadership Conference, and once again, it reminded me why I love this profession so deeply.
I love everything about this conference. New leaders sitting next to seasoned ones. Students leaning forward in their chairs. Mentors leaning back, still listening. Everyone showing up—not for credit, not for applause—but to do the work of shaping our profession.
The American Veterinary Medical Association (AVMA) held the winter session of the House of Delegates January 9–10, and it was, as always, humbling. More than 111,000 AVMA members are represented through this body. Seventy delegates speak for their respective states, territories, and allied groups—every facet of veterinary medicine flowing into one room: small animal, large animal, industry, academia, military, and students.
And what a room it is.
I am continually amazed by the depth of expertise in that space. Surgeons, researchers, practitioners, educators, policy thinkers. People who could be anywhere else—but chose to be here, debating language, refining resolutions, and asking the hard questions that rarely fit neatly into bullet points.
The House of Delegates is the principal policy-making body of the AVMA. It sets direction, elects leadership, and guides how our profession shows up in the world. But when you’re sitting in the middle of it, it doesn’t feel like bureaucracy. It feels like stewardship.
I serve as the delegate for the Society for Theriogenology—a group devoted to animal reproduction. It’s a small but mighty corner of veterinary medicine, and I never take lightly the privilege of carrying their voice into that room. When I participate, I’m not just speaking for myself. I’m speaking for colleagues, mentors, and future veterinarians who care deeply about the same work.
What strikes me most each year is not the disagreement—but the respect. Policies are debated. Language is challenged. Perspectives differ. And yet, the common thread remains we are all trying to make veterinary medicine better than we found it.
I often think about that line from Hamilton— “the room where it happens.” It is an honor to be in that room.
I left Chicago with cold hands, tired feet, and a heart quietly full. Veterinary medicine is not only practiced in clinics and barns—it is also gently shaped in conference rooms, by people willing to listen deeply, speak carefully, and carry the profession forward.
And honestly… I wouldn’t trade my seat in that room for anything.
High in the beautiful mountains of Alaska grows a tiny, unassuming flower. It’s easy to miss, blending quietly into the surrounding vegetation. But if you pause—if you truly look—you’ll find a remarkable little masterpiece.
Its dark green stems and leaves are like any other plant. But its blossoms set it apart: delicate petals of sky-blue, capturing the brilliance of a cloudless summer day. Small though it is, this flower lingers in the memory. Fittingly, it’s called the “Forget Me Not.”
A few years ago, I visited a sprawling cemetery. I wandered quietly through the endless rows of marble headstones, many dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. Moss clung to their bases, and time had softened the names and dates carved into the stone until many were barely legible.
I stood among thousands of graves. And I wondered: Who were these people? What lives did they lead? What stories did they leave behind? A few are still remembered. Most, I realized, are not.
As I read those fading inscriptions, I found myself asking: Is this what will become of me? When I, too, go the way of all living things, will I be remembered? Will I leave a legacy worth remembering?
My thoughts turned to the small cemetery in Castle Dale, Utah—the little town where I was raised. It’s a place that’s easy to overlook. But for me, it holds deep meaning. The cemetery sits on the north end of Center Street. One summer, when I was in high school, I worked there as a caretaker. Week after week, I mowed the lawn and trimmed the grass around each headstone with quiet reverence.
Many of my own ancestors are buried there. My great-great-grandmother. My great-grandparents. My grandparents. A beloved uncle. Even an infant cousin. They all rest in that sacred ground.
My great-grandfather died long before I was born. But I have a photograph of him—smiling faintly as he sits on the grass in a pair of worn bib overalls. Though aged and weary, his character shines through that old photo. It brings to mind something Thomas Edison once said: “I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of all the kings of the world.”
My grandfather passed when I was just three years old. What I know of him comes mostly from the stories others have told me. He served as the county clerk for more than two decades. Like his father before him, he was a dryland farmer who worked tirelessly to provide for his six children. The land they worked—season after season, year after year—still belongs to our family today.
My uncle Jerry passed away in 2016. I owe him my life. When I was five years old, I stood in the doorway of his kitchen, holding one of his favorite pink wintergreen candies. I popped one into my mouth, and it lodged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Without hesitation, Jerry calmly walked over, gave me a firm push on the stomach, and sent the candy flying across the room. To know Jerry Bott was to know one of the finest people I have ever met. He was the embodiment of loyalty, charity, and love.
Their graves lie side by side on the south end of the cemetery’s middle section. Each of them lived lives of quiet courage and unwavering kindness. They treated others with respect, offered helping hands, spoke honest words, and smiled freely. Through long years and hard miles, they gave their best. And when life’s storms came, they stood and faced them with grace and strength.
As long as my heart beats, they will not be forgotten.
They continue to inspire me. Their legacy calls me to be a better father, a better friend, and a better man.
Like the tiny Forget Me Not—humble and easily overlooked—each of us, no matter how small or unnoticed we may seem, has an important role to play in the great tapestry of life and in the legacy we leave behind.
The snow fell in silent harmony, each flake a dancer in an endless waltz from the heavens. By evening, Castle Dale, Utah, lay cloaked in a pristine blanket of white, the stillness broken only by the faint crunch of tires as our old green Chevy Suburban crept down a narrow, snow-covered road.
Inside the car, the magic of the evening was lost on me. At twelve years old, I sat sullenly in the back seat, my arms crossed in defiance. I didn’t want to be there.
In the rear of the Suburban, boxes of Christmas presents—wrapped with care and stacked neatly in empty Sunkist orange crates—shifted softly with each turn. The sound, a gentle whisper against the car’s stillness, grated on my nerves. It was a quiet reminder of the task I resented so deeply.
“Why them?” I muttered under my breath, the words heavy with bitterness.
To my young mind, no reason could justify this errand. Just weeks earlier, the family to whom we were delivering these gifts had penned a cruel letter to the local newspaper, a public rebuke aimed squarely at my father. I had read it myself, the words slicing deep, leaving wounds that felt fresh even now.
“Mom, why would they write such mean things about Dad?” I had asked, my voice laced with confusion and anger.
“I don’t know, Isaac,” my mother had replied gently, her tone even but tinged with sadness. “Sometimes people lash out because they’re hurting. It doesn’t make it right, but it’s what they do.”
“Well, it’s dumb,” I snapped, the injustice stoking my indignation. “None of it was true.”
Anger felt justified, even righteous. It shielded me from the vulnerability of hurt. The very idea of extending kindness to those who had wounded us seemed absurd, even offensive.
Yet here we were, delivering Christmas to them.
As the car came to a stop, the silence outside was profound. Snow muffled the world, insulating it in a cocoon of stillness. My father’s voice broke the quiet.
“Daniel, Isaac,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I need you to carry these boxes to the porch, knock, and then leave quickly. Don’t let them see you.”
My brother and I exchanged wary glances. Doorbell-ditching was a skill we had perfected in the innocence of childhood mischief. But this—this felt different.
The cold bit at my cheeks as I stepped into the night, the boxes heavy in my arms. The frigid air sharpened my senses, but my heart felt dulled, weighed down by resentment. My brother and I worked quickly, arranging the crates carefully on the porch. I raised a fist and knocked loudly, the sound reverberating in the stillness. Then we ran, retreating to the shadows where we watched, breathless and hidden.
The porch light flickered on, and moments later, a small, jubilant voice shattered the quiet.
“WOW! Look at what Santa brought us!”
I froze, the warmth in the child’s voice catching me off guard.
“See? I told you he wouldn’t forget us!”
More voices joined in—children’s voices, bright with excitement. From behind the frosted window, shadows danced as little hands carried the boxes inside. For a moment, we watched in silence, the glow of the porch light casting long shadows over the snow. Then, just as suddenly as it had come on, the light clicked off, and the house was still again.
The world was silent, but inside me, something stirred. The bitterness I had carried so fiercely began to thaw, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth—a feeling I could neither name nor fully understand.
Back in the car, I stared out the window, my thoughts heavy. My parents spoke softly, their words weaving through the quiet as they reflected on the power of love—the kind of love that gives freely, without expectation or condition.
Their words took root in my heart, drawing me to a scripture I had heard many times but was only now beginning to grasp:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” (Matthew 5:43–44).
That night, those words became real to me.
I don’t remember a single gift I received that Christmas. But I will never forget the glow of the porch light, the sound of those children’s voices, and the quiet realization that love—when given freely—has the power to transform even the hardest of hearts.
Thirty-three years have passed since that snowy Christmas Eve, yet its lesson remains etched in my soul. Outside my family, no one ever knew who left those gifts. But the truth I learned that night endures: love is not earned; it is given. It is steady and unwavering, reaching across divides, bridging wounds, and softening hearts.
Charley Pride captured it beautifully:
“He tells me money doesn’t matter,
Nor the color of your skin.
We could stumble or even fall, and still get up again.
‘Cause it ain’t about the deeds, good or bad, that we have done—
All we have to do is love to be disciples of the Son.”
This Christmas, I hope we pause to notice the beauty in life’s simple moments—a quiet snowfall, a radiant sunset, the warmth of family. And I hope we choose love, especially when it’s hardest. For when we give love, even to those who have wronged us, we open our hearts to something far greater: peace, healing, and grace.
The toys and clothes of my childhood have long since disappeared, but the memories remain. Christmas was never about what we received; it was about who we became.
That snowy night in Castle Dale taught me this enduring truth: the heart of Christmas is not found in receiving but in giving—freely, generously, and with love.
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.
Reindeer rarely struggle during birth. Nature has shaped them for survival in harsh places, gifting newborn calves with an astonishing vitality—they can wobble to their feet within minutes of entering the world.
Yet even with this resilience, danger lurks. Predation remains the leading cause of death in newborn calves. To counter this, reindeer have evolved a remarkable strategy: the cows synchronize their calving. When dozens of calves hit the ground at once, predators become overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of potential targets, dramatically lowering the risk for any single newborn. It’s brilliant biology at work—but in domesticated herds, synchronized calving can present its own challenges. Every now and then, a calf arrives too early, lungs still immature, and its fight for life begins the moment it takes its first breath.
Each year I perform several artificial inseminations on reindeer, and the calves born from these efforts are especially precious. We pour heart and time into giving them every possible advantage.
A few summers ago, one of those calves made an unforgettable entrance. He was a handsome young bull with a snow-white blaze on his nose, and we were smitten from the start. His presence was magnetic—one of those animals you can’t help but root for.
But within minutes it was clear something wasn’t right. His breathing was shallow and strained, the unmistakable sign of underdeveloped lungs. Premature calves often lack surfactant, the slippery, essential substance that reduces surface tension in the lungs and keeps alveoli—the tiny air sacs where oxygen exchange happens—from collapsing. Surfactant production ramps up late in gestation, so for preemies, every breath becomes a herculean effort.
Our treatment options were limited. Synthetic surfactant works wonders but comes with a price tag and a six-hour window that put it out of reach for most veterinary settings. Without it, the best lifeline is an oxygen chamber—essentially a neonatal ICU for calves—paired with intensive supportive care.
We nestled the little bull into the chamber and got to work. Feedings came every two to three hours. Monitoring was constant. The first stretch was nerve-wracking, each rise and fall of his tiny chest a small verdict on how the next hour might go.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things began to turn. His breaths deepened. His energy lifted. His will to live—always the wild card—proved strong.
Against the odds, he made it.
We named him White Lightning, after the bold streak across his nose and the spark he carried inside.
The day he turned the corner felt like a gift. We all gathered to celebrate, and even my youngest son, Kendyn—who at the time harbored a mild but persistent fear of reindeer—joined the moment. In the photo, he is very clearly crying, still convinced that reindeer are enormous, antlered monsters masquerading as cute livestock. (I’m pleased to report that he has since overcome his fear of reindeer.)
That summer, White Lightning reminded us that medicine isn’t just science—it’s heart, teamwork, timing, and sometimes a touch of grace.
On March 28, 2010, I was heading north on I-15 toward Cottonwood Heights, the glow of the Salt Lake Valley coming into view, my mind busy with the usual churn that precedes a new job. I was to start at an animal hospital in West Jordan the next morning, and the closer I got, the more the nerves settled in my stomach.
Then my phone rang.
The voice on the other end held a familiar tremor of worry. His pet was believed to be pregnant, and he needed confirmation. But there was a twist I hadn’t seen coming: the pet in question was a reindeer.
Now, I’ve treated a fair bit of the alphabet in my veterinary career—antelope, tigers, bison, camels, you name it—but reindeer were still firmly in the “only in National Geographic” category for me. I’d never examined one, let alone a pregnant one. Still, I was only a few miles away, and curiosity nudged me forward.
I turned off the freeway and headed his way.
I arrived just in time. Mischief—an aptly named cow with a soft, inquisitive face—was laying on her side with two black legs protruding from her backside.
I couldn’t help blurting the obvious: “Well, she’s definitely pregnant!”
Minutes later, I found myself kneeling beside her as we delivered a small jet-black calf, a striking little creature who looked as if someone had dipped her in ink. She was weak, her heart rate too slow, and the situation grew serious quickly. We worked fast. I administered medication, we dried her, warmed her, urged her to fight. Over the next several days we bottle-fed her while Mischief recovered from a retained placenta.
By the end of that first week, both mother and calf had turned a corner. They were eating, standing, bonding—living. It felt like watching the tundra thaw in early spring.
Over the following weeks, I returned often to check on them. On one of those visits, the owner approached me with a question that stopped me in my tracks: would I be willing to help him start an artificial insemination program for his reindeer?
He had been searching for more than a decade for a veterinarian willing to attempt assisted reproduction in this species. Every lead had ended in a polite decline.
And truthfully, the idea was daunting. But deep down, I knew that sometimes the best adventures begin exactly this way.
I told him yes.
Once I began researching, the size of the challenge became clear. Artificial insemination in reindeer had been attempted repeatedly since 1973, yet success remained nearly mythical. Even a well-funded (tens of thousands of dollars) effort at the University of Alaska had produced only a single live calf.
We had just $2,000, a modest barn, and more determination than was probably reasonable.
There was no roadmap. We had to develop our own methods for semen collection, cryopreservation, estrus synchronization, and trans-cervical insemination. We tried, failed, adjusted, tried, and failed again. There were nights when the only thing colder than the liquid nitrogen tank was the feeling of discouragement creeping in.
But then came the spring of 2011.
That was the year we made history: the world’s first female reindeer calf conceived through frozen-thawed artificial insemination. She stood on wobbly legs, blissfully unaware that she represented decades of attempts—and more than a few stubborn streaks on our part.
Since then, the program has produced dozens of calves using new techniques in semen collection, freezing, and insemination. With consistently high post-thaw motility and strong pregnancy rates, it has grown into one of the most successful reindeer artificial insemination programs in the world.
Looking back, it’s remarkable how one unexpected phone call can reroute a career. Life often hinges on those small moments when preparation meets opportunity and something greater unfolds.
Thousands of years ago, an astute observer noted:
“The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong… but time and chance happeneth to them all.” — Ecclesiastes 9:11
Time and chance were certainly at work that day on I-15.
And that is my take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM
This photo from 2011 captures a landmark moment in veterinary reproduction—the world’s first female reindeer calf conceived using frozen–thawed semen.
“Hey Doc, we’d love to have you over for dinner on Sunday. We’re grilling ribeye steaks and having banana cream pie.”
Two of my all-time favorite foods in the same sentence—how was I supposed to stay calm about that? And coming from John and Laura, two of the most loyal, salt-of-the-earth clients I’ve ever had, the invitation was even sweeter.
“I’d love to!” I said, probably faster than a man should admit.
“Perfect,” John said. “We’ll eat at seven. Come a little early—you can have some root beer and check out the new shed I’m building.”
“You bet,” I promised.
Sunday evening, I pulled into their driveway at 6:45 sharp. John was already waiting at the gate like he’d been tracking my ETA on radar. In his hand: a frosted mug big enough to double as a flower planter.
“Here you go, Doc. Fresh made.”
I took a sip. Vanilla. Cold. Sweet. The kind of root beer that hits the back of your brain and makes you rethink your brand loyalties.
“Now that is good,” I said, maybe a little too loudly.
John beamed and led me around the yard. I’d spent most of my hours with them out on the ranch, so seeing their home place was a change of pace. The lawn looked manicured enough to host a wedding reception. Lilacs were blooming, and the whole place smelled like spring was throwing a party.
“Come on in, Doc,” Laura called. “Dinner’s on the table!”
The kitchen table was an absolute spread—potatoes, warm bread, olives, ribeye steak, and the banana cream pie sitting there like a crown jewel. It was one of those meals you pause to appreciate before you even pick up a fork.
We ate, talked, laughed, and for a while, everything tasted as perfect as it looked.
Then, midway through the meal, John nudged the platter toward me. “Doc, there’s an extra piece of steak here. Want some more?”
“Absolutely,” I said, and started cutting into it.
“Do you like it?” he asked, watching me closely.
“Sure do,” I said.
“Good. You remember that old cow that had mastitis and that bad uterine prolapse? The one you told us we couldn’t sell? Well… we butchered her.”
Some sentences land gently. Others hit like a dropped toolbox. This one was the latter.
My appetite slammed on its brakes. The steak that was so tender a moment ago suddenly felt like it had tripled in density. All I could picture was that poor cow—prolapsed, infected, and now, apparently, partially inside me.
I managed a swallow, set down my fork, and cleared my throat. “Uh… could I get a little more root beer?”
Bless John and Laura—they were kind, generous people through and through. The evening was full of good company and genuine hospitality.
Each November, as the air turns crisp and the mountains put on their last display of autumn gold, I find myself reflecting on the quiet courage of those who have given more than most of us will ever comprehend. Veteran’s Day isn’t simply a day off work or a time for parades—it’s a deeply personal reminder of gratitude, sacrifice, and the high price of freedom.
A few years ago, I had the honor of walking through Arlington National Cemetery beside one of my dear friends, Seth Waite, a veteran whose quiet dignity spoke volumes. Together we followed the winding paths through rows of white headstones that seemed to stretch endlessly across the rolling green hills. Each one represented a life of service—someone’s child, someone’s love, someone’s friend. The sight of them all, perfectly aligned in solemn silence, filled me with both awe and humility. The marker labeled “OLD IRONSIDES” stands as a steadfast guardian of those who served with him in the Utah National Guard. A few short years ago, Seth completed his own remarkable service, retiring after a career of dedication and distinction.
As we walked, Seth shared moments from his own service—not boastfully, but with the steady perspective of someone who had seen both the weight and worth of duty. I could hear in his voice the deep bond he still carried for those who served beside him, and I could see in his eyes the quiet burden of memories that never fully fade. To walk beside him that day was to glimpse the very soul of sacrifice—not as an abstract idea, but as a living, breathing truth.
There’s something sacred about Arlington. It isn’t just a resting place; it’s a promise. Each headstone tells a story of courage, of love for country and for fellow citizens. As I stood there with Seth, I felt the air grow heavy with reverence. It wasn’t sorrow that pressed on my chest—it was gratitude. A deep, humbling awareness that every freedom I enjoy was secured by people willing to give everything they had, and sometimes everything they were.
As a veterinarian, I’ve dedicated my life to service in a different form—to care, compassion, and the preservation of life. But the men and women like Seth who wear the uniform remind me daily what true service means. It’s a calling that asks for sacrifice without expectation, and strength born not of glory, but of love.
Seth would never call himself a hero. But when I think of that day at Arlington—the rows of white stones, the stillness of the air, and my friend walking beside me in quiet reflection—I know that heroism doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it walks beside you in silence, steady and humble.
This Veteran’s Day, I’m especially grateful—for Seth, for all who have served, and for the reminder that freedom is not inherited, but continually preserved through courage and compassion. May we live our lives in a way that honors their sacrifice—not only in word, but in the way we love, serve, and remember.
DocBott 