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

My Take Tuesday: Choosing the Right Pet

One of the most important decisions a family can make is bringing a new pet into their lives. It’s a joyful choice, but also one that deserves thoughtful consideration. Too often, pets are selected on impulse—because of a cute face, a childhood memory, or a passing trend. But unlike toys or hobbies, pets are living beings who rely on us completely. Their health, happiness, and very lives are shaped by the decisions we make at the start.

Different animals—and even different breeds within the same species—come with unique needs. A Border Collie, for example, is brimming with energy, bred for generations to herd sheep across open pastures. Without a daily outlet for that energy, he may invent his own activities—chewing, digging, or redecorating your living room. On the other end of the spectrum, a Bulldog may be content with a short walk and a nap by your side but will require careful attention to breathing and heat tolerance. The exercise requirements, grooming needs, and even temperaments of different breeds should weigh heavily in the decision.

I’ve seen the consequences firsthand when the match between pet and family isn’t quite right. One that stands out was a dog who ended up in my exam room more often than in his family’s living room. He was anxious, reactive, and ultimately not a good fit for the household. Most of his struggles came back to a lack of early socialization and training. It’s an important reminder: your pet is very much a product of the time, energy, and consistency you invest in them. Breed tendencies may set the stage, but it’s your commitment that writes the story.

It’s not only about breed tendencies, either. Lifestyle, home environment, and family dynamics matter just as much. A busy family that’s gone from morning until night may find a high-energy dog overwhelmed with loneliness and mischief. A cat might be a better fit—independent yet affectionate. Similarly, a small apartment may not be ideal for a Great Dane, no matter how gentle they are.

At the heart of this decision is responsibility. When we bring a pet home, we are making a promise—a promise to feed, exercise, train, provide medical care, and offer companionship for their entire life. Depending on the species, that could mean 10, 15, or even 20 years of commitment. Our pets cannot choose for themselves. They depend on us to make wise, informed decisions on their behalf.

So, before you welcome a new four-legged friend into your family, pause and think. Research the breed. Consider your lifestyle. Be honest about your time, space, and energy. The right pet can bring immeasurable joy, laughter, and love. But only if we, as caretakers, begin with the right choice.

Because in the end, this isn’t just about finding a pet. It’s about honoring the trust of a life that will depend on you completely. Be thoughtful. Be wise. Be responsible.

And that is My Take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Luther
(A Black Lab’s Love)

He came like a shadow, silent and sure,
A wagging tail, a heart so pure.
Ebony coat, eyes deep and kind,
A guardian soul with a steadfast mind.

He wasn’t fancy-bred or leash-proud slick,
Just a black lab pup, sturdy and quick.
The kind of dog that don’t ask for much—
A bowl, a bed, and a good hand’s touch.

With Rebekah, he carved out his place,
Beside every footstep, he matched her pace.
Through winding trails and morning runs,
He chased the wind, kissed by the sun.

On roller blades, bikes, or feet flying fast,
He never fell behind, never let her past.
Just one goal in his loyal stride:
To stay beside her, to never divide.

He wasn’t just a dog; he was more—
A quiet protector, a heart at the door.
Through childhood laughs and growing pains,
He stood his post through sun and rain.

Now, he wasn’t just some backyard hound—
He was Rebekah’s shadow on solid ground.
He stood between her and whatever came near,
With the quiet courage that comes without fear.

He loved her fiercely, no words required,
Devotion deep, never tired.
And she, in turn, gave back that grace,
With every hug, every whispered praise.

Fourteen years of fur and heart,
Never once were they apart.
Now he rests where good dogs go,
Near where Kudo and Belle lie below.

When wind stirs the stillness and dusk paints the skies,
You just might catch Luther, in the corner of your eyes—
Still keeping watch, still trotting true,
Still loving his girl like good dogs do.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Chickens

If you went to elementary school with me, you probably remember my chicken obsession. While other kids were sketching superheroes or race cars, I filled my pages with hens and roosters. Every art project turned into a poultry portrait—hundreds of them, all mediocre, all mine. Thankfully, my teachers were patient enough to let me draw to my heart’s content, even if my artistic ability never quite lived up to my enthusiasm.

Each year, the highlight of my spring arrived in the form of the Murray McMurray Hatchery catalog. Glossy pages showcased every imaginable breed—silkies, frizzles, bantams, and standards—each with its own unique traits: comb type, feathering, temperament, productivity. I pored over those descriptions for hours, weighing the pros and cons as carefully as a Wall Street investor. My parents allowed me to choose one chick per year, and that single decision felt monumental.

Picking the right chicken is no small task. Climate, egg or meat production, foraging ability, predator awareness, broodiness, even personality—all must be considered. I took the process seriously, and in doing so, learned to research, compare, and commit.

One of the most fascinating things about chickens is how they reach our homes in the first place. Here in the U.S., the postal system has, for decades, delivered day-old chicks across the country by Priority Mail. At first glance, it seems cruel—tiny birds shipped without food or water. But nature has built in an incredible adaptation: just before hatching, a chick absorbs the last of the yolk’s nutrients, giving it enough sustenance to survive up to three days. In the nest, this allows the mother hen to wait until all her eggs hatch before leading her brood away. What looks like a logistical miracle is really biology at its finest.

And chickens aren’t just fascinating biologically—they’re surprisingly intelligent. Like humans, they see in full color. Studies show they grasp object permanence (knowing something exists even when it’s out of sight), recognize more than 100 individual faces, and can remember them months later. They even demonstrate self-control for future rewards—something once thought unique to primates. Some research suggests they understand numerosity and can perform simple arithmetic. In short, there’s a lot more going on behind those beady eyes than most people realize.

Even now, chickens remain my favorite animals. After a long day at the clinic, I’ll often stand in the back yard, just watching my flock forage and explore. Their curiosity and social quirks never fail to bring me peace.

I often think back to those carefree days in elementary school—crayons in hand, sketching chickens at my desk. Time paints those memories in brighter colors, but the joy was real then, and it’s real now. My drawings may have been clumsy, but they captured something important: a fascination that has never left me.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM