My Take Tuesday: Reindeer Reproduction

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.

My Take Tuesday: The Dinner Guest

“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.

But as for eating steak at their house again?

Well… once was plenty.

And that’s my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Weight of Sacrifice

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.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Smells of Fall 

There’s a moment each year—usually sometime between the last cutting of hay and the first cold snap—when the air in the Utah mountains changes. You can smell it before you see it. The morning breeze drifts down the canyon with a sharpness that wakes something ancient inside you. It’s the smell of fall—a fragrance made of endings, beginnings, and everything bittersweet in between.

Up high in the aspens, the air carries the dry sweetness of fallen leaves breaking down into the earth. Pine needles release a resinous tang as the sun warms the forest floor, mixing with the faint musk of elk and the spice of distant campfire smoke. There’s sagebrush too—sharp, clean, and almost holy—the scent that has baptized generations of Utahns who call the desert and the mountains home.

But it’s the cottonwood trees in late October that always stop me in my tracks. Their golden leaves shimmer like coins in the sunlight, and the air beneath them carries a smell unlike anything else on earth—a blend of damp bark, sweet decay, and the faint tang of river water. It’s a scent that clings to memory, earthy and honest, reminding me of fence lines along muddy creeks, of cattle moving slowly through the cool morning mist, and of 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 hang in the air—one last breath of autumn before winter settles in.

Sometimes I’ll take a drive up through the Nebo Loop, windows down, heater on full blast, just to breathe it all in. The wind rushes through the cab, swirling with the smell of cold creek water and dust from the tires on red clay roads. It’s a perfume no store could ever bottle—part nostalgia, part wilderness, and entirely Utah.

In the valley, the scent changes again. Wood smoke rises from chimneys, mingling with the sweetness of fermenting apples and the faint smell of rain-soaked fields. Horses still wear the summer dust on their coats, but even they seem to sense the season turning. It’s as if every living thing holds its breath for a moment, standing still in the golden hush before winter takes the stage.

The smells of fall bring 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, when I catch a whiff of juniper smoke or wet alfalfa, I’m transported 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’s the blend of mountain air and desert sage, or maybe it’s the mixture of memory and gratitude it stirs. Either way, I find myself breathing deeper this time of year—trying to hold on to something that can’t be kept, only appreciated.

Because in Utah, fall doesn’t just smell like change.

It smells like home.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Halloween

I’ve always thought autumn was nature’s way of reminding us to slow down. The fields grow quiet, the evenings draw in, and the air smells faintly of woodsmoke and change. The aspens turn to gold and the cottonwoods stand like torches against the blue sky, their leaves whispering farewell as they drift to the ground. Even the old farm dogs seem to sense it—stretching out in the sun, watching the world grow softer.

There’s peace in this season. A kind of beautiful melancholy that settles in the heart. After all, autumn is the year’s great sigh—its gentle promise that endings can be lovely too.

And then, just as the world has tucked itself in, along comes Halloween—bursting in with its laughter, its costumes, and its sugary chaos.

When I was a boy, Halloween meant freedom. It was the one night of the year when the grown-ups’ rules loosened their grip. We’d wrap ourselves in bedsheets or smear dark green paint on our cheeks, grab a flashlight, and set out into the crisp October dark. Every porch light was an invitation, every rustle in the leaves a little thrill of mystery.

I can still see that Ferron, UT night clear as day—the streetlights glowing in the fog, the sound of our sneakers scuffing against the pavement. My friend Jake Bulkley and I were certain we’d mapped out the most efficient candy route in town. We made good time too, our plastic buckets filling fast—until we got home and found Jake’s little sisters lugging in pillowcases so full they could barely lift them.

That was the night we realized we’d crossed the invisible line between childhood and whatever came next. So, naturally, we pivoted. The following Halloween was less about candy and more about a few harmless pranks that still make us laugh whenever our paths cross again.

These days, my Halloweens are spent at Mountain West Animal Hospital, and though I don’t see witches or werewolves, I do meet a fair number of Labradors who’ve eaten enough chocolate to terrify Frankenstein. There’s always a panicked phone call or two about glow sticks, a cat stuck halfway into a pumpkin costume, or a nervous shepherd who can’t make sense of the endless parade of doorbell-ringing goblins.

Halloween, for pets, must seem a strange sort of madness. The air hums with excitement, the smells are new and suspicious, and their humans suddenly start wearing masks and funny hats. I can’t blame them for being a bit uneasy about it all.

So, every year, as the last appointments wind down and dusk starts to settle over the clinic parking lot, I find myself offering the same bit of advice:

1. No candy, ever. Especially chocolate and anything with xylitol—a sweetener that’s harmless to us but can be deadly to pets.

2. Keep ID handy. A collar and microchip can turn a nightmare into a quick reunion if your pet slips out amid the excitement.

3. Watch the flames. A wagging tail and a jack-o’-lantern can be a disastrous combination.

4. Costumes are optional. If your pet doesn’t enjoy dressing up, let them skip it. If they do, ensure it’s comfortable and safe—and always supervise.

5. Skip the glow sticks. They’re not highly toxic, but they taste awful, and pets who bite them can drool and panic.

6. Quiet space, happy pet. Give nervous animals a cozy room away from the commotion.

7. When in doubt, keep them in. A calm evening indoors beats an adventure in the dark every time.

There’s so much to love about this season—the color, the laughter, the simple joy of it all. But our pets rely on us to see the world through their eyes and to protect them from what they don’t understand. With a little care and kindness, Halloween can remain the delightful, memory-making occasion it’s always been—for every member of the family, paws included.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Lessons from a Lamb

In the spring of 1988, the C–D (C bar D) 4-H Club met often in preparation for the Southeastern Utah Junior Livestock Show in Ferron, Utah. Our advisor, Diane Bott, poured her heart into helping every member get ready for the big event. Each meeting began with the familiar cadence of the 4-H pledge—a ritual that still echoes in my mind today:

“I pledge my head to clearer thinking,
My heart to greater loyalty,
My hands to larger service,
And my health to better living,
For my club, my community, my country, and my world.”

People often ask: What’s the real benefit of 4-H?

The answer depends on who you ask. Many will say it builds character, instills discipline, teaches responsibility, and connects youth with agriculture. All of that is true—but I believe the greatest gift of 4-H runs even deeper.

For me, one of the most meaningful parts of the 4-H experience is the confidence it builds in young people who learn to care for something entirely dependent on them. I remember one young 4-H’er who was hesitant to even step into the pen with the lamb he planned to show that year. The year before, he’d been knocked down by a big ram while helping his dad feed the sheep, and the memory left him scared. But that lamb needed him—it couldn’t eat, drink, or have a clean pen without his help. So, little by little, he faced his fear. He learned to trust, to try again, and to take pride in what he could do.

I still catch a glimpse of that boy every time I look in the mirror.

I’ll never forget how attached I became to my own first lamb. I was only seven years old, and when the sale day came, I cried as I hugged that lamb goodbye. It was my first taste of how love and loss can coexist—and how responsibility can shape the heart.

Caring for animals brings out something special in us. Whether it’s a lamb, a piglet, a calf, a puppy, or a kitten, children learn what it means to have a living creature rely on them. It teaches empathy, respect for life, commitment, and consistency. It builds self-confidence and a quiet kind of joy that lasts long after the chores are done.

I’m deeply grateful for my time as a 4-H’er.

The photo here is of me with my first lamb at the Ferron stock show in 1988.

The smile on my face then is just as wide as the one I have now, remembering that day.

And that’s my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Veterinary Technician Appreciation Week

Being in the veterinary industry is hard work. Each day brings its share of ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and moments where life and death hang in the balance. By the end of the day, we’re often exhausted—physically and emotionally drained.

Since our patients can’t speak for themselves, much of our work involves communicating with their human families. In many ways, we treat the owners as much as we treat the pets. Doing this well requires a rare blend of empathy, patience, and professionalism.

Behind every good veterinarian stands a team of dedicated, compassionate individuals committed to helping people help their pets. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by an exceptional team of veterinary technicians here at Mountain West Animal Hospital.

If you’ve ever faced a pet emergency, you know how meaningful it is to have a knowledgeable and caring technician by your side. Veterinary technicians are the unsung heroes of the veterinary world. Without these devoted professionals, our hospital would be a sea of chaos. They do it all—greeting clients, answering phones, restraining animals, drawing blood, assisting in surgery, cleaning cages, and comforting both pets and people alike.

I couldn’t make it through a single day without my team. They bring the skill, heart, and steady hands that make our clinic what it is.

What most people don’t see are the emotional costs of this profession. They don’t see the quiet tears after we’ve said goodbye to a patient we’ve cared for during many years. They don’t see the long hours, the late-night emergencies, or the emotional whiplash of losing one patient and saving another within minutes. They don’t see the neglected pets we try to rehabilitate—or the physical toll this work takes: the bites, scratches, sore muscles, and aching backs.

They don’t see the blood, vomit, and messes that get cleaned up without hesitation, or the moments of triumph when a dying pet turns a corner and walks out our doors, tail wagging, ready to live more good years.

There are heroes among us who never stand in the spotlight, never hear applause, and rarely receive the recognition they deserve.

Pictured here are some of my heroes. They are my right hand and my left. They work in a high-stress environment, put in long hours, and face risks every day—all because they care. They care deeply for our clients and their four-legged family members.

This week is National Veterinary Technician Appreciation Week. Please join me in thanking these amazing women for the extraordinary work they do at Mountain West Animal Hospital.

They are, quite simply, incredible.

And that’s my take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Wide Open Spaces

As a child growing up in Castle Dale, Utah, my world revolved around the small farm my family kept. We raised sheep, cattle, and chickens, and our days followed the rhythm of the pastures. One of my favorite moments came whenever we opened the gate to a new field. Whether it was fresh grass, muddy ground, or even a blanket of snow, the animals’ reaction never changed.

They would run. They would leap. They would frolic with an almost reckless joy. It didn’t matter if the new pasture was bigger, smaller, or no different than the one before—what mattered was the space. Wide open space seemed to unlock something within them, as if freedom itself was a tonic for the soul.

The older I get, the more I realize that people aren’t so different. Too often I catch myself living inside a self-imposed corral, surrounded by fences I’ve built for the sake of safety and predictability. I tell myself these barriers keep the predators out, but in truth, they mostly keep me in. And I suspect I’m not alone.

It feels secure to stay in our comfortable pastures, never risking, never stretching, never stepping into the unknown. But in doing so, we risk something far greater—missing out on the fullness of what life can offer. Comfort breeds mediocrity, and mediocrity never leads to growth.

Mark Twain once wrote, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did.” That line has always struck me. True progress, whether for animals or people, requires challenge. And challenge always comes wrapped in uncertainty, inconvenience, and even a little fear.

So today, I remind myself: it’s time to unlatch the gate. To step beyond the familiar fences. To feel the wind of possibility at my back. Like those sheep in Castle Dale, it’s time to leap and run, not because the ground is better on the other side, but because freedom itself is worth the risk.

With that, I throw off the bowlines. I set sail from the safe harbor, toes over the edge of the bow, heart open to the wide open.

It is time to explore, to dream, and to discover.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: The Milk Cows That Raised Me

I grew up where the sagebrush bends,
Where chores began before day’s end.
Two Guernsey cows, my morning call—
Mahana and Mokey, Guernseys all.

First came Mahana, hooves hittin’ the ground,
Then Mokey slipped out without makin’ a sound.
Two heifers—pure luck on that spring calvin’ night,
Dodgin’ the curse of a Freemartin’s bite.

The barn was wood—no varnish, no gleam,
Just planks held fast with weathered beam.
The milk pails rang like a supper bell,
And that old place knew how to smell—

Of sweat and stock and fresh-cut hay,
Of boots that stomped at break of day.
We didn’t need a hardwood barn floor—
Just dirt, dried dung, and not much more.

My brother and I split the daily load,
Each milking shift our own shared code.
Mahana was mine come morning’s light,
While she was Dan’s when it turned night.

In the evening, Mokey would be mine, I recall,
Bound by teat and the milking call.
Steam rose like ghosts through the cedar and pine,
As her tail swayed slow in the evening shine.

Mahana stood with quiet pride,
Like she’d taken an oath she’d never lied.
Gentle eyes, a patient grace—
She let me work at my own pace.

But Mokey? She had no chill—
A bovine rodeo, bent on will.
She’d snort and twitch and swat and fling,
Her tail could whip like a fencing string.

I tied it once… or tried, I guess—
But Mokey had a gift for mess.
She’d fake a yawn, then pitch a fit,
And land a hoof where I sit.

She kept one eye locked on my shin,
A dairy cow with a devilish grin.
She’d tip the pail just for the thrill,
And test my faith and balance skill.

That old coral held a quiet kind of spell,
The sort no city soul could tell.
Their breath like fog in morning light,
Their warmth against the edge of night.

I’d talk to them of school and dreams,
Of basketball and cowboy schemes.
And though they chewed like they were bored,
I swear those cows just stored my words.

No ribbons hung, no grand parade—
Just honest milk, and lessons made.
Mahana taught me calm and grace,
Mokey? How to dodge in place.

And years have passed since those days flew,
But every single word of this is true:
Those cows helped raise me, hoof, and hide—
With patient love… and a wild ride.

DocBott