My Take Tuesday: When the Pavement Burns

I love the summertime.

I love the smell of campfire smoke clinging to a hoodie after a night under the stars. I love the thunder of hooves at the rodeo, the twang of a guitar at a county fair, and the soft splash of a fishing line hitting still water. I love that people seem to smile more in July. Maybe it’s the sun, or maybe it’s the way grilled food and celebration bring us all a little closer.

But as a veterinarian, I’ve also learned that summer carries a shadow.

Each year, I see it in the panting, trembling bodies of dogs rushed into our clinic—tongues bright red, eyes glazed, pulses pounding beneath fur that never got the chance to cool down. Heat stroke doesn’t knock—it barges in. And it doesn’t just take the old or the weak. It takes the healthy. The young. The ones who were “just going to be in the truck for a minute.” The ones who chased the ball just one time too many.

I’ll never forget a black Labrador that collapsed at a family BBQ. He’d been romping with the kids, stealing hot dogs off the grill, tail wagging and tongue lolling—until he wasn’t. By the time they brought him in, he was already slipping away. His core temperature was 107. He didn’t make it.

That’s the problem with dogs—they love too hard and stop too late. They don’t complain until it’s already too critical.

So, here’s my summertime plea:

If it’s too hot for your bare feet on the pavement, it’s too hot for their paws.

If it’s too hot for you to sit in the car with the windows cracked, it’s too hot for them to wait there—even for “just a minute.”

If your dog is panting heavily, slowing down, drooling excessively, or seeming confused—stop. Find shade. Get water. Cool them down.

And don’t be fooled by clouds or breeze. Utah heat can sneak up fast.

I want your dogs to enjoy summer just as much as you do. I want them at the fishing hole, wagging their tails beside the campfire, or curled up on the porch after a day at the lake. But I also want them alive. Safe. With you.

So be their voice when the thermometer climbs. Be their protector when they’re too happy to know better.

There’s nothing better than summer.

Let’s make sure we all get to enjoy it together.

And that is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Liberace, the Turkey-Hearted Peahen

Now most backyard tales start simple and sweet,
With chicks in a coop or hens on a beat—
But this one begins with a turkey named Karen,
Whose maternal ambition was downright declarin’.

Each spring she’d sit with unshakable will,
On a nest full of nothin’, just dreamin’ her fill.
She fluffed up her feathers and clucked with conviction,
But year after year brought the same contradiction.

No chicks. No peeps. No proud little brood—
Just disappointment beneath her good mood.
But Karen, you see, ain’t the quittin’ kind.
She had mothering burned into her bird-brain mind.

Then one spring morn, with a wink from above,
Or perhaps just a veterinarian’s soft-hearted shove,
A different egg landed in her old nest—
Not turkey, but peafowl—tan-shelled and blessed.

She took to that egg like it came from her soul,
Kept it warm through the chill, never losing control.
And when it hatched out? Well, bless her dear heart—
She welcomed a squawk with a whole different start.

She was lanky and loud, with eyes full of sass,
Tail feathers twitchin’ like blades in the grass.
Her call was a shriek that could rattle a barn,
And her strut? She had that peahen charm.

We named her Liberace—it just felt right,
With a showman’s soul and a flair for delight.
She marched through the yard like a Vegas parade,
While Karen kept watch in the cool morning shade.

Now Liberace, though born from a turkey’s embrace,
Grew a head with a crown full of vertical grace—
Those slender plumes of green and blue stood tall,
Forming a feathered delicate tiara, the envy of all.

Now the tom looked puzzled, the chickens dismayed,
But Karen stood proud of the child she’d made.
“Doesn’t matter,” she clucked, “if she gobbles or screams—
She’s mine, and she’s perfect, and born of my dreams.”

So, if ever you think love comes just one way,
With feathers that match or the right DNA,
Remember the tale of the turkey who believed—
That love’s not in looks, but the care we conceive.

A turkey named Karen, a daughter full of flash,
A tale stitched in laughter with heartstrings and hash.
And though she may strut with a fan fit for kings,
She learned how to love from a peahen’s colorful wings.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The Calf We Lost

Reindeer calve in the spring—April and May, typically—when the days grow longer, and the earth begins to warm. There’s wisdom in that natural rhythm. Calves born during this window have the best odds: they are carried to full term, born into a world where the conditions are gently improving, where warmth and forage steadily increase. Nature, when left to its design, rarely miscalculates.

But sometimes, for reasons we don’t fully understand, things don’t follow the plan. A calf comes too early. A placenta detaches. A mother delivers before the lungs are ready, before strength has found its way into the legs. These calves enter the world not with a leap, but with a struggle. They are premature, small, quiet. Their eyes blink open with a gentleness that feels like a whisper—and yet, everything in you wants them to roar to life.

This past week, I lost a calf. A little female. She was sweet and wide-eyed, with ears like velvet and the tiniest trace of spunk, even in her weakness. We did everything we could—plasma transfusions, oxygen, heat, tube feedings every two hours. We wrapped her in blankets, lifted her gently to try and help her stand. We whispered encouragements that she didn’t understand, but that we needed to say anyway. We watched. We waited. We hoped.

But sometimes, even everything isn’t enough.

There’s a deep ache in losing an animal you’ve tried to save. It’s not just the absence they leave—it’s the stillness that settles in after the last heartbeat, the quiet heartbreak that lingers in the stall, and the way the mother circles, confused and grieving in her own silent language. I’ve seen a lot of life in this work, but death always stings. It chips away at you in small, unspoken ways.

This isn’t the part we like to talk about. When people think of animal care, they picture baby animals wobbling to their feet, warm bottles in the barn, fuzzy faces nudging your hand. And all of that is real. But so is this—the loss, the helplessness, the heavy truth that even our best efforts sometimes fall short.

And yet, we keep showing up. We keep raising animals. We keep loving them, caring for them, mourning them. We do it again and again, because the joy outweighs the grief, even if just barely sometimes. Because each life is worth it, no matter how brief. Because even a short chapter can change you.

She didn’t get to grow up. But for a few hours, she was deeply loved.

And that matters.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Buttercup, the Clinic Queen


She strutted in a cardboard box,

Like royalty in exile—

With whiskers twitchin’, sass for miles,

And claws that filed your file.

An orange streak of sass and fire,

A marmalade she-devil—

Could purr and snuggle sweet as pie,

Then turn pure, unholy rebel.

The neighbor kids, a mean ol’ pack,

Had hearts as dry as dust—

One took a shot, the pellet hit,

And robbed her tail’s full thrust.

We patched her up, she healed up strong,

Though now she’s got a nub—

But she holds it high, a feline flag,

Still queen of her lil’ club.

She spends her days inside the clinic,

Lyin’ square on charts and screens,

She’ll swat your pen, your hand, your soul,

Then cuddle like she’s clean.

She stalks the rabbits just for sport,

With eyes like pistol sights—

But never draws; she just enjoys.

Their bunny-burstin’ frights.

She struts among the hens and ducks,
A queen amid the crew—
They chatter like a feathered court,
All loyal through and through.

But don’t you dare assume she’s soft,

That tail nub ain’t defeat—

She’s still the queen, the sass supreme,

With purrs and claws complete.

So, raise a hand for Buttercup,

A diva, tough and spry—

Clinic cat, survivor, sass machine,

With fire in her eye.

My Take Tuesday: Grace, Grief, and a Little Bit of Vomit

There are moments in veterinary medicine that feel set apart from the ordinary—as if the world slows down to make room for something sacred. Home euthanasias are like that. Without the clinical glare of bright lights or the sterile hum of machines, the space fills instead with love, memory, and a quiet reverence.

Millie was a wiry, scruffy little dog with a crooked smile and a tail that wagged in half-time during her golden years. For fifteen years, she’d stood guard at the back door, kept the mailman honest, and weathered every storm—literal and figurative—curled at the feet of the family who loved her. She was stitched into the very fabric of their lives.

Her body was failing, but her family’s devotion hadn’t faded. They called me to help her pass peacefully, at home, in the warmth of familiar voices and gentle hands.

When I arrived, Millie lay on a patchwork quilt in the living room. The air carried the faint scent of lavender and something softer—grief, maybe, or memory. The mother knelt close, stroking Millie’s ears with the kind of tenderness only time can teach. The father stood off to the side, swallowing hard. And the teenage daughter cradled Millie’s head in her lap, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the dog that had always been there.

I gave the sedative first. Then I waited. When they were ready, I knelt to complete the procedure.

And that was when it happened.

Without a word, the daughter leaned forward, overwhelmed, and—suddenly—vomited. Not beside me. Not near me. But squarely onto the right side of my face.

It trickled down the side of face. It was warm. It was immediate. And it was one of the more unforgettable moments in my career.

I stayed steady. I finished the injection with calm hands and soft words. Millie passed quietly, unaware of the chaos that had just unfolded inches away. Her final moment was peaceful, surrounded by the people who had loved her all her life.

Then came the silence.

The mother gasped.

The father sprang into action with a roll of paper towels.

The daughter, mortified, buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through tears. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was going to happen.”

But I wasn’t upset. Not even close.

Grief isn’t neat. It doesn’t come dressed in black with tidy handkerchiefs. It arrives as it is—raw, unfiltered, and unpredictable. It breaks down barriers and spills out in tears, trembles, and, sometimes, the most undignified forms of emotion.

I wiped my face, offered a reassuring smile, and said what I knew to be true: It’s okay.

Because veterinary medicine isn’t just about the animals. It’s about being present for the people who love them. It’s about showing composure during someone else’s heartbreak. It’s about honoring the bond—even when it plays out messily.

Millie was loved. She left this life wrapped in warmth and memory. And if part of that moment meant I walked away needing a change of clothes, so be it.

The human-animal bond is a powerful thing. It’s loyal and imperfect, wild, and wholehearted. It teaches us how to love, how to let go—and how to stand steady, even when the unexpected shows up in the most unforgettable ways.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Chester the Combative

Let me tell you a tale from my younger days,
Of a rooster who earned both my fear and my praise.
A bantam, no taller than half of a boot,
But with swagger and spite in a feathered red suit.

Dad fetched him from a fella down
In Carbon County’s dusty town.
He came boxed up, all calm and neat,
Just cardboard, holes, and cockerel feet.

At first, he seemed gentle, serene as a dove—
A fine little fowl you could cuddle and love.
But the moment he met his fine harem of hens,
Something snapped in that bird—he abandoned all pretense.

Like a match to dry sagebrush, his fury was lit,
And the coop turned to chaos the moment he hit.
His spurs, curled like scimitars, gleamed in the light—
A warrior’s weapons, prepared for a fight.

His tail was a pennant of shimmering flame,
And the devil himself might have whispered his name.
He detested red clothing—it triggered his wrath,
And he’d charge with precision, no mercy, no math.

A blur of intent, a flash from below—
And he’d peck at your shins like a foe in a show.
His breath, I imagined, was sulfur and smoke,
His crow like a curse that the underworld spoke.

He’d launch from the shadows with lightning-quick speed,
A poultry torpedo on two little feet.
But beneath all the fury and fury alone,
There was something uncanny, uniquely his own.

A pride, a defiance, a boldness unshaken—
The spirit of something not easily taken.
And truth be told—though he left me in pain,
Though he bloodied my ankles and scrambled my brain—
I still look back fondly on that feathered pest,
Who fought like a lion with puffed-out red chest.

So, here’s to dear Chester, that rooster possessed—
May he roost up in heaven (or hell if it’s best).
For no barnyard’s complete, in this world or the next,
Without a small beast who keeps everyone vexed.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Rick DeBowes

Some people walk into your life like a summer breeze—gentle, unnoticed at first, until you realize the whole atmosphere changed when they arrived. Dr. Rick DeBowes didn’t just step into the veterinary profession—he transformed the terrain.

I first came to know Rick not by him being a professor, but by his presence. He doesn’t lead with credentials (though he holds plenty), nor does he boast of his accomplishments (though they are many). Instead, he listens. He leans in. He notices. He makes you feel like you are the most important person in the room. And in doing so, he lifts the entire room.

Rick is, by any measure, a brilliant surgeon. Board-certified. Professor. Innovator in equine orthopedic care. But it wasn’t a scalpel or textbook that made him a legend—it was vision.

He saw a profession full of gifted, dedicated individuals… burning out.

He saw classrooms filled with future veterinarians… unsure of their own worth.

He saw colleagues hiding pain behind polite smiles.

So, he did something about it.

In 2004, alongside Dr. Kathleen Ruby, Rick founded what would become the Veterinary Leadership Experience (VLE)—a transformative program that flipped the script on veterinary training. Where most conferences offered facts and formulas, VLE offered something rarer: reflection, vulnerability, and the courage to grow not just as a clinician, but as a human being.

At VLE, Rick didn’t just teach leadership. He modeled it. Servant leadership. Quiet strength. Emotional intelligence. He handed out paddles not to steer the boat, but to remind us that we each play a part in moving the profession forward.

I’ve seen Rick comfort students in tears. I’ve seen him speak truth to power with a smile that disarms and a message that cuts to the core. I’ve seen him show up—not just when it’s easy, but when it matters.

For me personally, Rick has been a mentor, a friend, as constant as the North Star. He has faced some of life’s most daunting trials—first with a major heart surgery, and then with an invasive battle against abdominal cancer. Yet through it all, he has stood unwavering, meeting each challenge head-on with a rare blend of courage and calm. Where others might falter, he has shown only grace—patient in pain, steady in uncertainty, and quietly determined to keep moving forward. His resilience has not just carried him through but inspired those of us lucky enough to walk beside him.

He reminds me that greatness in our field isn’t measured by the number of degrees on the wall or initials after a name—but by the people we lift, the teams we build, and the hearts we tend to along the way.

Veterinary medicine needs visionaries. It needs wisdom. But most of all, it needs people like Rick DeBowes—who aren’t afraid to challenge the old ways, to sit with the hurting, and to remind us that leadership isn’t about being in charge. It’s about choosing to care when nobody’s looking.

Thank you, Rick, for helping us become better doctors. And more importantly… better people.

And That is My Take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Nightfall and Newborns

It was colder’n sin on a Tuesday night,
Snow blowin’ sideways, not a star in sight.
The kind of night where fences snap,
And smart folks curl up in a heated nap.

But me? I was slidin’ down a rutted track
In a truck that shook like a bad haystack,
Headed for a ewe out past Cottonwood Creek
Who’d been tryin’ to lamb for near half the week.

Her eyes said trouble, her belly said soon,
And I was prayin’ I’d beat the moon.
The barn was lit by a single bulb,
It had a haunted look — real cold and old.

She was down and sweatin’, flat on her side,
One little hoof just pokin’ outside.
So I scrubbed up quick and dove right in,
Sayin’, “Alright girl, let’s begin.”

Now lambin’s not fancy, it’s wet and wild,
You’re part mechanic, part midwife, part child.
I fished for a leg, got turned just so,
Then gave a pull — real smooth and slow.

Out he flopped like a lump of clay,
Soggy and squeaky, but here to stay.
He blinked at me with a look that said,
“Is this the world? Feels cold and dead.”

But mama, bless her, she took control,
Talkin’ to him deep down in her soul.
She licked and nudged and huffed and puffed,
Got him standin’ — wobbly, but tough.

He found her udder like he’d read a map,
Took his first meal with a satisfied nap.
And me? I just stood there, cold and soaked,
Smellin’ like straw and feelin’ kinda choked.

‘Cause I’ve patched up bulls and doctored cats,
Taped up dogs and wrestled lots of brats,
But there’s nothin’ that hits like that first breath,
That shoves back hard from the edge of death.

So yeah, I drove home through a blizzard’s bite,
Heater blowing cold air, truck leanin’ right.
But I grinned like a fool in the rearview mirror —
‘Cause life won that round. And I got to steer.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The One-Eyed Snack

The job was an enucleation—a surgical removal of an eye. Not a terribly uncommon procedure in large animal practice, but still a delicate one. We had the cow safely in a squeeze chute, and I did my best to maintain sterility in a place where “clean” usually just means “hasn’t been actively stepped in today.” I scrubbed up, gloved in, and worked with care. The tumor was extensive, but the removal went smoothly. I gently extracted the diseased globe and placed it on a sterile drape I had thoughtfully spread across two upended barrels.

It looked… professional. Almost elegant, in a gross kind of way.

I turned back to the cow to begin suturing the incision. I had maybe three stitches in when, like a flash of black-and-white lightning, a border collie launched into my surgical field. This dog, who had been loitering at a respectful distance until now, suddenly leapt up, planted himself on top of the barrels, grabbed the freshly removed Hereford eyeball, swallowed it whole, and hit the ground running—all in one smooth, horrifyingly efficient motion.

I blinked. The client blinked. The dog did not blink. Probably because it had just eaten something that used to blink.

“Well,” I said, calmly tying another suture, “I guess we won’t be sending that to pathology.”

The owner started to apologize, but immediately we both started laughing. What else could we do? The eye was gone. The cow was patched up. And the dog—miraculously—suffered no ill effects aside from probably some very strange dreams.

Let it never be said that large animal medicine is boring. Sometimes it’s bloody. Sometimes it’s bovine. And every so often, it’s downright eye-opening.

And that is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: Footsteps in the Snow

The snow fell thick in Castle Dale,
A hush across the land—
And in that frozen morning light,
I watched my father stand.
He crossed the field, a silent form,
With purpose in each tread,
And left behind a trail of prints
Where lesser feet might dread.

I bundled up and followed him,
My legs too short, too slow.
But found my way by planting steps
In footprints in the snow.
Each hollowed-out impression there
Was more than just a mark—
It carved a path of steadiness
Through cold and bitter dark.

My father’s strength was not just bulk,
Though strong he surely was—
He’d swing a hammer, split a post,
Or lift with no applause.
One nail, one swing, a room in awe—
I watched with wide-eyed grace,
And thought the gods of thunder must
Have borrowed from his pace.

Yet more than strength, it was his care
That built the man I knew.
He’d help a neighbor without ask,
And never claim the due.
A bed for one who had no rest—
No sermon, no acclaim—
Just quiet acts of kindness done
Without the need for fame.

Each child had their yearly camping time—
A fire, a tent, a fishing pole. a stream.
We’d eat our Pringles by the coals,
And talk and laugh and dream.
He’d take us where we chose to go,
No matter what he faced—
And somehow made us each believe
That we could not be replaced.

The world is swift, and fathers drift,
But mine was like the sun—
A constant blaze of quiet good
Who showed up, and got things done.
No medals line his weathered walls,
No speeches praise his name—
But every inch of who I am
Is stamped with his acclaim.

A statue on his dresser reads
What time has made more true:
A father is a simple word—
A daddy sees you through.
And now, as I make prints of mine,
In soil, snow, or sand,
I find I still am following
The footprints of that man.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

DocBott