My Take Tuesday: Skunked

A couple of weeks ago, a Boy Scout troop stopped by the clinic at the end of the day for a tour. As I showed them around and answered their questions, I couldn’t help but reminisce about my time as a boy scout.

The year was 1995.

Boy scout troop 306 of the Castle Dale 1st Ward embarked on a week long 50 mile hike during the month of July. The hike began on a Monday at Ferron reservoir and ended on Saturday at Indian Creek Campground in the beautiful Manti Lasal National Forest.

As a 14 year old kid, I was just like most of the other boys in my troop: wholly naive and completely unaware of my ignorance. My sense of adventure far outweighed sound logic and I was prone to encounter trouble because of my mischievous nature. My little brother Caleb and my best friend Zac were my partners in crime and were witnesses to myriads of situations that shaped our imaginative Boy Scout days working on merit badges, monthly camp outs and high adventure events that eventually led to each of us earning ours the rank Eagle Scout. These experiences consequently helped make us into the men we are today.

On the second night of this long hike, we made camp at a place called Cove Lake. This beautiful lake is just a few miles from the scenic skyline drive and is nestled in a large grove of Douglas Fir and Ponderosa pines.

As Boy Scouts do, we set out to set up camp and explore the lake. We soon found out that we were not the only species inhabiting the camp on this particular night. We shared the campsite with one of the most widely distributed mammals in North America, Mephitis mephitis, or the common striped skunk. The fecund creatures were everywhere. As we floated around the lake on a makeshift raft, we could see dozens of them around the waters edge.

We clearly had a dilemma. Almost immediately, the skunks began ransacking our tents and food supply. These smelly striped critters were endlessly curious about the bipedal invasive species that had entered their territory.

Passive in nature, skunks will avoid contact with humans and domestic animals; however, when challenged they are amply prepared to protect themselves.
If a skunk feels threatened, it will give a warning which includes hissing, stomping of feet, and elevation of the tail. Failure to heed the warning signs will result in the unlucky aggressor being sprayed with the skunk’s anal gland secretions. Skunks are highly accurate in their aim and can spray 7 to 15 feet away!

A dozen rambunctious boys were immediately perceived as a threat by the striped beast. They seemed to coordinate the invasion of the camp, approaching from all directions.

A scout watching the skunk rodeo spoke to me, “Hey Isaac, if you hold a skunk by its tail it can’t spray you.”

The notion had some truthiness to it, after all, if it can’t plant its feet it likely wouldn’t be able to empty its scent glands.

Without any further thought, I reached out and grabbed the nearest skunk by the tail. I lifted it directly in the air and held it suspended with my arms straight out.

The little guy simply twirled slightly and lined his backside to my face and fiercely sprayed with all that he had.

It went directly in my mouth and up my nose. It covered my entire face and some even got in my eyes.

I immediately began vomiting uncontrollably. By eyes burned and my vision became blurry.

What a lesson! Take my word for it, a skunk can certainly spray when it’s feet aren’t off the ground. This equivocated logic is dangerous.

As Mark Twain once observed, “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

The odeur fetide that I experienced is actually a thick, volatile, oily liquid that obtains its pungency from sulfur-based thiols. There in nothing that smells worse than skunk spray inside your nose!

It took weeks before I stopped smelling skunk.

Frantically, I raided the food tent in search of cans of tomato juice. I found 8 cans and a can opener. I then took a tomato shower. I scrubbed my head in it, my whole body was covered in tomatoes. You haven’t lived until you take a shower in tomato sauce.

The rest of the week proved to be much less adventurous. I was forced to sleep in my own tent and I walked behind everyone else along the trails.

Now when I see a skunk, I give it plenty of space. And I tell everyone that I can that contrary to popular myth, a skunk can spray even when being held off the ground by its tail!

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

 

My Take Tuesday: The Majestic Eagle

Above the timberline, soaring over the lofty mountains of the Manti Lasal National Forest fly two bald eagles. These beautiful birds fly through the deep blue skies that surround Castle Valley.

For some unknown reason, this pair of eagles chose an unusual spot to make build their nest. Leaving behind the towering cliffs that surround Castle Dale, they instead close a small clump of Cottonwood trees located in the corner of a dry land alfalfa patch.

I recall my father purchasing this land in the late 1980’s. We tilled the blue clay soil and planted alfalfa on the areas that were fertile enough to support crop production.

The very next year, while we were feeding cows, we noticed two bald eagles perched in the clump of Cottonwood trees at the bottom of the field. I recall thinking how unusual it was to see two bald eagles in the same tree.

During the next few months, these eagles built a massive nest. We watched as they carried sticks and bark from miles away. The nest was an engineering marvel, built high in the tree below the crown supported by large solid branch extending straight east. The nest was constructed  with thousands of interwoven sticks. The interior was lined with grass, corn stalks, and other material. The bowl was filled with soft materials and the downy feathers from adults.

I recall the first eaglets born on the farm. In a rare event, one year 3 offspring were successfully raised.

Year after year, decade after decade, this process repeated itself producing many successful offspring.

Each breeding season, material was added to the nest and its size increased by up to a foot in height and diameter each year. The nest became visible from great distances as its size increased.

The bald eagles were a welcome sight. Each year they would appear right before Christmas. I remember seeing them consistently every year while growing up. They stood perched, looking down on my every move. A feeling of safety and security ensued as these majestic guardians stood watch.

Although we all recognize the Bald Eagle as the national symbol of the United States, and as a proud icon of patriotism. I feel they could serve just as well or better as symbols of faithful monogamy. When one of these birds of prey finds his or her mate, the pair stays together for life.

Just this past week, the eagles were spotted overlooking the open fields just south of Castle Dale.

There is safety in constancy, and security in consistency. I am glad that high in the blue skies above Castle Dale, there is a welcoming place, where the eagles fly.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: “Doc, whatever she has, I’ve got the same thing too!”

Animals and people dictate what happens every day for me. Simple routine appointments can turn out to be complex once the unpredictable yet potent potion of human personality is added to the mix.

A few months back an elderly woman came in to the clinic. Her cat had been suffering for weeks with non-stop itching. As I examined the cat I noticed that this itch was insatiable. The poor cat had scratched and irritated nearly every inch of its body in an effort to satisfy the intense itch. The scratching was so intense, that nearly her entire body was covered with bleeding sores.

A diagnosis of mites was made after taking a skin scrape and looking at it under a microscope. This particular mite is elusive and difficult to find even for the most experienced veterinary dermatologists. However, it is highly contagious.

As I began speaking with the owner about the severity of the diagnosis and the need for immediate treatment, I could tell that her mind was wandering. She was clearly not focusing on what I was saying. I politely asked if I had said something that did not make sense or if she had any questions. Often, the open ended questions will allow a client to discuss their concerns, however, I was not prepared for what happened next.

“Doc, do you think I have what she has?”, her voice was inquisitive. “Excuse me?”, I replied, “What do you mean?” Before I could say another word, this elderly woman dropped her pants. Literally right to the floor. Her legs were covered in large red lesions. They actually looked like checker boards. I learned that day, albeit involuntarily, what “granny panties” look like.

I am easily embarrassed, and when this happens my face turns a deep red. I stammered, “I…. I’m… a… I am sorry ma’am, you will have to go to your doctor for that”. The beet-red shade on my face persisted even after I exited the room.

As crazy as this may seem, I have had worse things happen while going about my daily appointments. However, those are saved for another My Take Tuesday.

My job is never boring. The two legged creatures that come in keep it from ever being so.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Forget Me Not

There is a flower that grows in the beautiful mountains of Alaska. It is a tiny plant that is easily overlooked, it’s small and unassuming stature is easily lost as the surrounding vegetation is observed. However, on closer look, this flower is a remarkable example of nature’s masterpiece. The dark green stems and leaves are much like those of other plants, but its flowers are what make this flower unforgettable. The sky blue pedals perfectly match the beauty of a clear, cloudless day. The tiny flower displays a most unique and unforgettable beauty. It is a true marvel of creation and is aptly named, “Forget Me Not.” 

A few weeks ago, I visited a massive cemetery. I walked quietly along the long never-ending rows of marble headstones. Many were from the 18th and 19th century. Moss was visible along the base of many of the markers. Names and dates, weathered and worn, were fading on many of them. 

As I looked around, the headstones numbered in the thousands. Who were these people? What were they like? What is their story? Only a handful are remembered, and unfortunately, most are largely forgotten. 

I pondered as I read the inscriptions. I questioned, “Is this what is to come of me? When I go the way of all living things, will I be remembered? Will I leave a legacy?” 

My mind turned to the small cemetery in the town where I was raised. Castle Dale, Utah is a small place, one easily overlooked by most. The cemetery is located on the north end of Center Street. I spent a summer during high school working as a caretaker there. Each week, I would mow the lawn. Care was taken as the grass was trimmed around each and every headstone. 

Many of my ancestors are buried in the cemetery in Castle Dale. My great great grandmother, my great grandparents, grandparents, a beloved uncle and an infant cousin all rest in this special place. 

My great grandfather passed away long before I was born. I have a picture of him smiling and sitting on the grass in a pair of bib overalls. He is aged and tired, but his character is still evident in the old photograph. It reminds me of a wise observation that Thomas Edison made concisely by stating, “I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of all of the kings of the world.” 

My grandfather died when I was only three years old. My memories of him are largely limited to what others have told me. He served as county clerk for over two decades. Like his father, he was a dry land farmer. He worked tirelessly to provide for his six children. The ground he and his father tilled and planted year after year, still remains in the family today. 

My uncle passed away in 2016. I owe my very life to my uncle Jerry. Once, as a curious 5 year old, I was standing in the doorway to his kitchen. Jerry had a bag of those pink chalky wintergreen disc candies. I placed one in my mouth, and somehow got it lodged inside my trachea.  He must have sensed my panic, but he calmly walked over and gave a firm push on my stomach and the piece of candy shot across the room. If you are lucky enough to know my uncle Jerry Bott, then you have the privilege of knowing the best person I have ever met. There is no better example of loyalty, charity and love than he was. 

All three of their graves are located next to each other in the south side of the middle section. Each lived wonderful lives. Each treated their fellow men in kind with an honest word, a helping hand and a smile. With the years and the long hard miles, each always did their best. When the storms of life broke lose, each valiantly fought with courage. 

As long as my heart beats, each will never be forgotten. 

They inspire me still. Their legacy invites me to be a better father, a better friend, and a better man.

Like the small unassuming Forget Me Not flower, each of us, no matter how small or inconspicuous we are, have an important part to contribute to the tapestry of our posterity and the majesty of creation and life. 

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Reflection

The wind howled, its lonesome lullaby piercing my ears as I turned up my coat collar. The desolate country lay still, with its towering stone cliffs and sage brush interrupted only occasionally by small clumps of cedar trees. The trail I was climbing was built by the CCC project (Civilian Conservation Corps) in the 1930’s during the Great Depression. The winding trail jots back and forth in a switchback as it leads to the south end of Trail Mountain.

I stood in awe as I gazed at the clear smooth reflective surface of Joe’s Valley Reservoir. The water was as smooth as glass and the towering mountains seemed to peer back from the water.

I have so many childhood memories of hiking this trail with my family, of fishing in the lake below and of family reunions with loved ones who are no longer here.

This is home. There is something about Emery County that heals my soul. This is my constancy and my serene sanctuary where I can reflect and recharge.

At its simplest, reflection is about careful thought. But the kind of reflection that is most valuable is more nuanced than that. The most useful reflection involves the conscious consideration and analysis of beliefs and actions for the purpose of learning. Reflection gives the brain an opportunity to pause amidst the chaos, untangle and sort through observations and experiences, consider multiple possible interpretations, and create meaning. This meaning becomes learning, which can then inform future mindsets and actions.

A reflective period need not be a time to be unduly harsh with ourselves, but rather to be lovingly honest. Firm yet forgiving. After all, endless rumination and self-recrimination keeps us trapped in a past we cannot change, and no one benefits from this. An attitude of self-forgiveness can liberate us from old patterns or ways of being that we likely adopted for a reason, but that do not serve us nor adequately reflect who we are and who we’d like to be.

Taking time to reflect will most certainly help you recharge. It will help you refocus and it will bring feelings of gratitude and purpose that are otherwise never experienced.

Try it. You will not regret it.

If you need a spot, there is a place along the CCC trail high above the world’s most beautiful reservoir just west of Castle Dale, Utah.

And at is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Christmas Cactus

I never did get to meet my paternal grandmother. Her name was Caroline Westover Bott. She died several years before I was born. I wish I could have gotten to know her. I have heard stories about her humorous personality and just how kind and sweet she was.

Her favorite plant was called a Christmas cactus. This plant  is a long lived plant with flat, segmented stems. Most of the year its appearance is fairly unassuming. It seems to be just a regular potted green in the corner of the living room.

Around Christmas, however, something magical happens.

With care, this plain looking plant will blossom with beautiful pink flowers. Because of this festive seasonal bloom, the Christmas cactus is a tradition in many European and North American homes during the holidays.

After my grandmother died, her husband and children continued to take care of her Christmas cactus.

Caring for this plant is much more intense than other common house plants. Despite its name, the Christmas cactus is not a desert plant, but rather has its origins in the tropical rain forests of South America.

In fall, night temperatures around 50-55 degrees will trigger Christmas cactus to form flower buds. A carefully monitored balance of darkness and sunlight will give you beautiful blooms in time for the holidays. My uncle Jerry faithfully took care of this plant year after year until he died two years ago.

One of my favorite Christmas memories is setting around this plant on Christmas morning and opening presents. I will forever treasure this family time and the pleasant memories that remain.

Another unique feature of this segmented plant is its ability to propagate. By transplanting a cutting of at least three stem segments into a small pot of soil (preferably taken from the pot of the parent plant). At least one segment is then buried. With care and time the plant will take root.

A couple of years before my uncle Jerry passed away, he gave me a small transplant from this Christmas cactus that belonged to my grandma. As it brilliantly bloomed during this holiday season, I longed to spend time with my loved ones that have passed away. I am so grateful for this tangible legacy that will continue to live on and be passed on to my children. It is my own little piece of a holiday tradition that lives on all year long. I cherish my Christmas cactus and the family ties it symbolizes.

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

As December’s Facebook posts on reindeer come to an end, I hope that each of you have learned something about this fascinating species.

When we think of reindeer and caribou, we think of vast herds of migratory animals that cross the tundra of the holo-Arctic regions of the earth. However, a wild herd of caribou has migrated for thousands of years across the southern border from Canada and into Washington and Idaho.

The last remaining herd of caribou to roam the contiguous United States is believed to be on the brink of disappearing, after an aerial count suggested that only three members survived the winter – all of them female.

The South Selkirk herd were once part of a larger population of southern mountain caribou whose habitat spanned much of the Pacific Northwest. But human activity has forced the population to break off into small herds.

By 2009, the Selkirk herd was estimated to have about 50 members, living in an ecosystem that stretched from British Columbia to Washington and Idaho.

Seven years later that number had dwindled to 12, despite decades of efforts to save them. In April of 2018, the provincial government of British Columbia reported that this number continued to diminish until just 3 animals remained.

Steps  are being made to help save this group of caribou. I am proud to be involved in these efforts.

Humans are one of hundreds of thousands of animal species to inhabit this earth. Each species, however inconspicuous or humble it may seem, is a masterpiece of biology and is well worth saving.

And  that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Rudy the Reindeer

As a veterinarian, each case I see presents a challenge. Emotionally, each day is filled with both happiness and sadness. Clinical outcomes vary, some patients make it, others do not. Regardless, I give my best to each. I hold a special place in my heart for those pets that couldn’t be saved even with all the resources in the world.

I am fortunate to have the privilege of working on a variety of species. As this month’s Facebook entries on reindeer continue, I am reminded of a unique case with a reindeer named Rudolph.

Rudy, as he was affectionately called, was a unique bull. He did not display the extreme aggression typical of intact male reindeer. He was docile. He knew his name and would come when called. His favorite treat was a handful of rolled corn. During the seasonal displays, he was always popular, especially among the children. Meeting a reindeer named Rudolph is exciting, even for many adults.

Rudolph played a role in my success in reindeer artificial insemination. He was the first male that we were able to successfully collect and freeze. His offspring carry the same docility and unique tractable nature.

Rudy became ill one evening in April. I traveled to Sandy to see what could be done. I found Rudy in rough shape. He was in obvious distress and having difficulty breathing.

After hours of intense care and medical treatment, Rudy did not improve. The cause, a small winter glove that had lodged in his intestine. A careless individual likely left the black glove in his pen during the christmas display season. For whatever reason, it had stayed in the rumen (largest stomach compartment) for several months before entering the small intestine. Reindeer are non discriminate eaters and will literally eat anything that is placed in their pen.

Reindeer are very stoic. They often do not show clinical signs until they are gravely ill. This makes surgical intervention almost impossible. Despite our best efforts, this magnificent animal did not make it.

Often, such is the case in veterinary medicine. Whether it be a dog or cat, or a reindeer or sheep, each deserves to live a life free of pain and suffering. I give up a bit of the peace in my heart each time one does not make it. We all do this. Over time, we feel those missing pieces of peace more and more. Although Rudy did not belong to me, I still had tremendous difficulty saying goodbye.

There is also some good that came from this experience. We were able to freeze over 100 doses of Rudy’s semen. This is stored in liquid nitrogen and will be good indefinitely. Thankfully, Rudy will continue to produce reindeer calves for years to come.

He was truly one of a kind.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Christmas

Growing up my family had some wonderful christmas traditions. I vividly remember each Christmas. I particularly remember the activities we had on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day each year.

Santa Claus will not leave any presents if you are awake when he comes. Each of us knew that for certain, yet the natural curiosity and excitement of Christmas made it difficult for us to fall asleep.

My dad was aware of this, and each Christmas Eve he would take us out for an activity to wear us out physically in the hopes that it would help us sleep soundly that evening. I remember each Christmas Eve we would go on hikes in the nearby hills or we would play a competitive game of basketball. Our endless energy would be spent, in part on these activities.

After the Christmas Eve activities, we would have a Bott family Christmas party. My fondest memories of this happened at my parents house. Uncle Chris and Aunt Diane would bring their kids. Jeannie, Jerry and Jeffry would also always come. We would laugh and sing and would have a wonderful meal. The highlight of the night was always opening White Elephant gifts. The gifts were classic gag gifts and were absolutely hilarious. Many gifts made yearly returns to the exchange. One would learn to decipher the weight and size of packages to avoid receiving these gifts. I remember in high school I had to work one Christmas Eve. I was so sad to have to miss the family party. I remember longing to be with my family on that particular Christmas Eve.

Christmas morning began early. My siblings and I were well accustomed to waking up at 5 AM to feed the animals and milk the cows. Sleeping in on Christmas just didn’t make much sense. We would wait in our bedrooms until dad came to lead us out. He would cover our eyes and lead us to the other side of the dark living room. Once we were all together, Mom and Dad would turn the lights on. We each had a spot for our presents. We would rush to these locations. We were allowed to only ask for 3 things for christmas, and we would first look for those items we wanted so badly.

Following this, we would head across the street to feed the animals and milk the cows. Even on Christmas this task was necessary. We would complete it as fast as possible, for the day was just beginning.

Upon returning to the house, we would eat breakfast. I remember Egg Nog always being there. We would also have fresh oranges and cereal.

In today’s skeptical fast-paced world, our busy lives often keep us from enjoying the simplest of life’s pleasures. One of my favorite Christmas traditions is to read an old newspaper entry that was written more than a century ago.

Eight-year-old Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York’s Sun in 1897, asking the direct question, “Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?”

The response by Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history’s most reprinted newspaper editorial:

“VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.”

May each of us take a moment to enjoy the simple things today. As long as there is a sunset, there will be always be moments of joy and gladness for each of us.

I recollect with fondness the traditions my family shared. The presents are gone. The shoes and clothes are all worn out, but the memories remain. The true meaning of Christmas is, after all, about love. Our Christmases were centered around family. We were together. How grateful I am for that. A quick trip down memory lane rapidly brings back the joy and love we felt each christmas while growing up in Castle Dale.

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM