My Take Tuesday: The Society for Theriogenology

Every profession has a place where its people gather—a place where friendships are renewed, ideas are exchanged, and the next generation is inspired. 

As I write this, I’m en route to Pittsburg, PA, for one of the highlights of my professional year—the annual conference of the Society for Theriogenology.

After years of virtual meetings and remote learning, gathering in person feels like a gift. The education is valuable, but the real magic happens between the lectures—in the hallway conversations, impromptu discussions, shared meals, and renewed friendships. These moments foster collaboration, inspire new ideas, and strengthen the professional community in ways that no virtual platform ever could.

This conference has been a summer tradition for me since 2007. The location changes every year, but the anticipation never does. I still count down the days until I can reconnect with friends and colleagues who share my passion for animal reproduction.

So, what exactly is theriogenology?

Theriogenology is the branch of veterinary medicine devoted to reproduction. It encompasses the physiology and pathology of male and female reproductive systems across species, along with veterinary obstetrics, gynecology, and andrology. In human medicine, it would take an OB-GYN, a neonatologist, and an andrologist to cover the same breadth of expertise expected of a single theriogenologist. From antelope to zebras and from embryos to parturition, the field demands curiosity, precision, and a deep appreciation for comparative biology.

My own journey into theriogenology began at Southern Utah University, where a mentor named Dan Dail introduced me to the discipline. He entrusted me with a research project examining the relationship between body condition scores and conception rates in synchronized beef cattle. That experience—and his mentorship—helped shape the course of my career and ultimately led me to veterinary school.

At Washington State University, I had the privilege of studying under Dr. Ahmed Tibary, a world-renowned theriogenologist whose influence reaches through textbooks, research publications, and generations of veterinarians. His comparative approach taught me to think critically and work through complex cases with confidence. We collaborated on numerous studies, particularly in camelid reproduction, and those years remain among the most formative and rewarding of my professional life.

Theriogenology has sharpened my clinical instincts and broadened my understanding of medicine. Whether I’m caring for cats and dogs in the clinic or working with elk, alpacas, or water buffalo, the principles I rely on trace back to this foundation. It is where science meets curiosity and where I feel most at home. If you’ve ever wondered how lessons learned from an alpaca might help a dog—or how studying reproduction in one species can inform another—that’s the beauty of comparative medicine. Comparative medicine is what makes my mind come alive.

In the lobby of Mountain West Animal Hospital, a small statue sits on a cabinet—a gift commemorating my service as president of the Society for Theriogenology in 2018. The statue depicts Nandi, the sacred bull of Hindu tradition and a symbol of purity and fertility. Represented as a Bos indicus bull adorned with gold and silver, Nandi’s origins trace back to the ancient Indus Valley civilization, where cattle played a central role in daily life. Even today, temples throughout India continue to honor him.

That statue is one of my most treasured possessions. More than a keepsake, it serves as a daily reminder of the journey I’ve taken and of the mentors, colleagues, and friends who have shaped that path.

If there is one quality that distinguishes reproductive specialists, in my experience, it is kindness. They are approachable, generous with their knowledge, and eager to help others succeed. In a profession that can sometimes reward ego, these veterinarians lead with humility. Many hold leadership positions at veterinary schools across North America, quietly influencing and inspiring the next generation of veterinarians.

I am proud to stand among them.

The older I get, the more I realize that careers are shaped less by titles and accomplishments than by mentors, friendships, and communities that help us become who we’re meant to be. This remains my favorite conference of the year. I look forward to learning, growing, and bringing new knowledge back to my practice. Most of all, I am grateful for the privilege of spending a career in the endlessly fascinating and ever-evolving field of theriogenology.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Roadie, the Rattlesnake, and the Rest of Us

There are people who spend their entire lives walking a single road.

And then there are people like Dr. Kevin Fitzgerald, who somehow manage to build a few extra roads along the way—simply because the journey is too interesting to travel just one.

The first time I ever heard Kevin’s name, it wasn’t in a veterinary hospital. It came up during a conversation about Animal Planet.

Someone casually said, “You know… the veterinarian who used to be a bouncer for the Rolling Stones.”

I laughed.

I assumed they were making it up.

They weren’t.

Dr. Kevin Fitzgerald, DVM, PhD, ABVP—and enough additional letters to make most veterinarians wonder where he found room to write them all—is one of those rare people who seems almost impossible to summarize.

He worked as a roadie for Elvis Presley. He provided security for The Who. And, after a well-timed conversation with Keith Richards—yes, that Keith Richards—he traded the backstage chaos of rock and roll for the wonderfully unpredictable chaos of veterinary medicine.

That single decision changed the course of his life.

Kevin earned his veterinary degree from Colorado State University and became one of the defining figures at a veterinary hospital in Denver. Along the way, he became board-certified in canine and feline practice, earned a PhD in reproductive endocrinology, authored more than fifty scientific publications, lectured around the world, championed wildlife conservation, and introduced millions of people to emergency veterinary medicine through Emergency Vets on Animal Planet.

Those are remarkable accomplishments.

But they aren’t what I remember most.

During the summer of 2006, I volunteered at the Veterinary Leadership Experience in beautiful Post Falls, Idaho.

I figured I’d spend the week setting up chairs, carrying boxes, or stuffing registration packets—one of the countless volunteers quietly helping the event run smoothly.

Late one morning, someone handed me a different assignment.

“Drive to the Spokane airport and pick up tonight’s guest speaker.”

Simple enough.

Except it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, we’d been given the wrong flight information.

By the time I arrived at the airport, our guest had already been waiting for more than three hours.

Three hours.

My stomach dropped.

Being chewed out wasn’t exactly a new experience for me, but I’d never managed to inconvenience someone of this stature before. During the entire drive to Spokane, I rehearsed apology after apology, wondering exactly how badly this was about to go.

When I finally found him, he was sitting quietly near baggage claim.

I introduced myself, shook his hand, and apologized more times than I can remember.

He smiled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“These things happen.”

Then he said something I’ve carried with me ever since.

“It takes one second to be kind and two seconds to get angry. I take the shortest path.”

That was Kevin Fitzgerald.

During the drive back—and again later when I returned him to the airport—not once did he mention the delay.

Instead, he asked about me.

Where had I grown up?

Why had I chosen veterinary medicine?

What did I hope to do with my career?

He listened with genuine curiosity.

Not politely. Not out of obligation.

He actually cared.

Here was a man who had spent eleven seasons on national television.

A comedian with a devoted following.

A veterinarian recognized around the world.

A scientist.

A conservationist.

A man who had stood backstage with some of the biggest names in rock and roll.

And yet, for those two car rides, he somehow made me feel like I was the most interesting person in the vehicle.

I was just a veterinary student.

A volunteer.

One more face in the crowd.

But Kevin made me feel important.

He made me feel like my story mattered.

I’ve never forgotten that.

Neither should we.

I’ve often thought that Kevin represents two different kinds of medicine.

One heals the body.

The other heals the spirit.

He has a scalpel in one hand and a microphone in the other.

He has repaired broken bodies during the day and lifted weary hearts at night—using humor, stories, and just enough mischief to remind us that laughter has therapeutic value too.

He has been a clinician.
A teacher.
A mentor.
A conservationist.
An entertainer.

But above all, he has been consistently kind.

And in the end, I suspect that may be his greatest accomplishment.

So here’s to Kevin Fitzgerald. The roadie who became a veterinarian. The herpetologist equally comfortable handling rattlesnakes and hecklers.

The man who reminded a nervous veterinary student that kindness is almost always the shortest path between two people.

No matter how many letters follow your name…
No matter how many awards line your office wall…
No matter how remarkable your career becomes…

People will remember how you made them feel.

Thank you, my friend.

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

My Take Tuesday: Hazel and the Skunk

As a teenager growing up in the small town of Castle Dale, I looked forward to summer at the end of each school year. Summer meant freedom—from homework and from sitting at a school desk.

For me, a perfect summer day included vanilla ice cream, snow cones, and strawberry shortcake. Tranquil Castle Valley evenings offered frequent opportunities to grill hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks, alongside corn on the cob and thick slices of juicy Green River watermelon.

Summertime also meant hard work. In addition to irrigation and farm chores, several elderly widows in Castle Dale would hire my siblings and me to mow their lawns each week.

Hazel was my favorite.

Her small house stood just north of the new recreation center. She felt like family to me. Her friendliness and kindness were evident every time I mowed her lawn.

Though modest in size, her yard was lush and carefully maintained. Along the south side of the property, tall trees stood like sentinels, shielding the house from the persistent Castle Valley wind. Beneath their deep green canopy lay a perfectly manicured garden, with neat rows of Swiss chard, chives, radishes, peas, carrots, spinach, and lettuce.

Her lawn was also difficult to mow. Flowers and bushes demanded precision with the mower and edger. Despite my best efforts, I would occasionally graze her chives, and the unmistakable onion scent would immediately betray me.

“Oh no—you hit my chives!” she would say.

I suspect she planted extra each year, knowing a few would inevitably fall victim to my mower.

After finishing, Hazel would bring out red punch and cookies. I would sit on her living room couch, enjoying the refreshments week after week. She would ask about my life and share stories of her Seely and Livingston pioneer ancestors who helped settle Utah and build the Salt Lake Temple.

Hazel loved cats. A small door in her kitchen led to the backyard, allowing them to come and go freely. A large bowl of cat food sat in the center of the kitchen for any passing feline.

One day, Hazel mentioned how quickly the food was disappearing. She had been refilling the bowl three or four times a day, only to find it empty each time she returned.

As I sat on the couch with a clear view into the kitchen, I noticed movement near the bowl. I turned to look.

The largest skunk I had ever seen waddled up and began gorging itself.

“Hazel!” I shouted. “That’s not a cat—that’s a big, fat, humongous skunk!”

“My laws!” she gasped. “Get it out of here!”

I jumped up, and the startled skunk made a dash for the door. Its considerable girth prevented anything resembling speed. Its belly nearly dragged along the floor as it lumbered away.

When it reached the cat door, the front half slipped through easily. The back half did not.

As the animal forced itself through, it simultaneously unleashed a voluminous spray from its scent glands—in my direction. The blast filled the entire kitchen instantly.

If you’ve never experienced skunk spray up close, it is unforgettable—a thick, oily, sulfurous assault on the senses. There is nothing worse than having that smell inside your nose.

Hazel and I quickly retreated out the front door. We propped open the kitchen door and set a fan on the floor to air out the house.

Then we laughed—hard—for hours.

Hazel passed away shortly after Memorial Day in 2003. I miss her dearly.

Each summer still brings back fond memories of Hazel, that obese skunk, and the all-you-can-eat Mephitis buffet.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: When the Pavement Burns

I love summertime.

I love the smell of campfire smoke clinging to a hoodie after a night beneath a sky full of stars. I love the thunder of hooves at the rodeo, the twang of a guitar drifting across a county fairground, and the gentle splash of a fishing line breaking the surface of still water. I love that people seem to smile a little more in June and July. Maybe it is the sunshine. Maybe it is the way backyard barbecues, family reunions, and long evenings somehow bring us all a little closer together.

Summer has always felt like a season of freedom.

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

Every year, I see it arrive at the clinic door.

It comes in the form of panting, trembling dogs whose bodies have become furnaces they can no longer cool. Their tongues are bright red. Their eyes are glazed. Their hearts race desperately beneath coats that trap heat they cannot escape. Heat stroke does not knock politely. It barges in without warning.

And it does not just claim the old or the frail. It takes the healthy, the young, and the energetic. The dog who was “only going to be in the truck for a minute.”

The dog who chased the ball one throw too many.

I will never forget a black Labrador brought to me after a family barbecue. Earlier that afternoon, he had been the life of the party—running with the kids, stealing hot dogs from the edge of the grill, tail wagging nonstop. He was doing exactly what Labradors do best: enjoying every second of life.

Until he wasn’t.

By the time his family carried him into the clinic, he was already slipping away. His temperature was 107 degrees. Despite every effort, we could not save him.

That is one of the heartbreaking things about dogs.

They love too hard and quit too late.

They will keep running long after their bodies are begging them to stop. They will keep following you, chasing the ball, hiking the trail, and soaking up every moment of your attention. They do not complain. They do not ask for a break.

And sometimes, by the time they show us they are in trouble, it is already too late.

So here is my summertime plea.

If the pavement is too hot for your bare feet, it is too hot for their paws.

If it is too hot for you to sit comfortably in a parked vehicle with the windows cracked, it is too hot for them—even for “just a minute.”

If your dog is panting heavily, drooling excessively, slowing down, stumbling, vomiting, or acting confused, pay attention. Stop the activity. Find shade. Offer cool water. Begin cooling them and seek veterinary care immediately.

And do not let a few clouds or a gentle breeze fool you. Utah heat has a way of sneaking up on both people and pets.

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, when the thermometer climbs and the pavement begins to burn, be their voice. Be their common sense. Be their protector when they are simply too happy to know better.

There is nothing better than summertime.

Let’s make sure everyone gets to enjoy it.

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: The June Morning Awn

The clock read 4:27 a.m. when my phone buzzed on the nightstand, breaking the fragile stillness of early summer. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and answered. Early morning calls like this are an unwritten rule of veterinary life—crises seem to wait until the world is quiet.

“Dr. Bott,” I said, already bracing myself.

“Doc, it’s Marcy. Sorry to wake you, but it’s Bandit. He’s struggling to breathe.” Her voice was tight, her words shaky.

Bandit was her six-year-old Border Collie—the kind of dog who’s more than a pet. He was her shadow on the ranch, her confidant, and, truth be told, her best friend. I didn’t need more details.

“I’m on my way,” I said, pulling on jeans and a button-up shirt, then grabbing my truck keys from the counter.

The roads stretched out before me, dark but warm, the coolness of night already beginning to yield to the rising heat of the day. Cottonwood fluff danced in the headlights, and a mourning dove’s doleful call echoed from somewhere in the distance. Even at that hour, there was a quiet splendor in the world—though my thoughts were fixed on Bandit.

Marcy was waiting as I pulled into the ranch yard, her silhouette framed by the light of the barn. She didn’t say much—just nodded and led me inside.

Bandit lay on a bed of straw, his chest rising and falling in short, strained bursts. His eyes met mine with a mixture of trust and desperation. I knelt beside him, gently feeling his throat, listening, watching. His breathing was ragged, whistling with every inhale. A small trickle of blood stained the fur beneath his left nostril.

“This isn’t his throat,” I murmured. “It’s higher up—likely his nose.”

Marcy looked at me, searching for answers. I gave Bandit a mild sedative and carefully guided an otoscope cone into his nostril. Sure enough, there it was—a slender, barbed foxtail awn lodged high in his right nasal passage, angled like a fishhook waiting to do more damage with every breath.

Foxtails are the seed heads of certain grasses—harmless enough when swaying in a field, but dangerous once they dry. By June, Utah fields are full of them. Their design is sinister: tiny barbs that drive the seed forward and prevent it from backing out. Dogs can inhale them, step on them, or get them lodged in ears and eyes. Once embedded, they keep migrating—piercing tissue and carrying infection with them.

With long forceps and a steady grip, I eased the awn free. It was no longer than an inch, but it had nearly turned deadly. The change was immediate. Bandit’s breathing slowed. His body relaxed. His tail gave a few weak but joyful thumps against the straw.

Marcy dropped to her knees beside him and buried her face in his fur.

“Thank you, Doc,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

I lingered for a few more minutes to make sure he was stable, sipping the hot chocolate Marcy had brought me. As I stepped out of the barn, dawn was in full bloom. The sky, brushed in hues of apricot and rose, cast golden light across the hayfields. Dew glistened on the fence lines. The world didn’t just wake up—it unfurled.

Driving home with the windows down, the air smelled of sagebrush and fresh-cut hay. A single foxtail seed had nearly unraveled Bandit’s world—and Marcy’s. It was a quiet reminder of how the smallest things can matter most.

So, here’s my advice to dog owners this season: avoid tall, dry grasses if you can. Check paws, ears, and noses. Watch for sneezing fits, pawing at the face, or repeated head shaking. And if your dog just doesn’t seem right, don’t wait—a foxtail might be to blame.

At the heart of this work, it’s never just about removing a grass awn. It’s about restoring peace to the people and animals who depend on each other.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM 

My Take Tuesday: The Cost of the Calling

Last Friday, I found myself on the receiving end of medical care rather than providing it.

For the past several months, I had been dealing with a nagging pain that seemed to worsen at night and after sitting for extended periods of time. Like many veterinarians, I convinced myself it was probably nothing. Maybe I had simply overdone it. Maybe I was getting older. Maybe it would just go away on its own.

It didn’t.

A visit to my physician confirmed the diagnosis: a right inguinal hernia.

So on Friday, I underwent surgery to have it repaired.

This marks the third hernia repair I have required since becoming a veterinarian.

Apparently, years of pulling calves, pushing cattle, lifting Saint Bernards, moving anesthesia machines, carrying feed sacks, and occasionally wrestling a reluctant reindeer can take a toll on a fellow’s body.

Who knew?

The truth is that veterinary medicine is a physically demanding profession. Most people see the medicine, the surgery, the diagnostics, and the science. What they don’t always see are the thousands of pounds lifted, pushed, pulled, restrained, and carried over the course of a career.

The dairy and beef cattle years were especially hard on my body. There is nothing quite like spending long days in corrals, chutes, barns, and calving pens to remind you that livestock generally outweigh veterinarians by a considerable margin.

And yet, if given the opportunity to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Not for a second.

The sore muscles, the long nights, the scars, and even the occasional surgical repair are all part of a life spent doing work that I love.

I am taking a few days away from the clinic to recover and plan to return to work on Thursday. While I am eager to get back, I will be taking things a little easier over the next six weeks. My surgeon was quite clear that if I would prefer not to have a fourth hernia repair someday, I should allow this one to heal properly.

That seems like sound advice.

In the meantime, I would like to express my sincere gratitude to our wonderful clients for their patience, kindness, and understanding. Your support means more than you know.

Veterinarians spend much of their lives helping others through illness, injury, and recovery. Every now and then, we get a small reminder of what it feels like to be on the other side of the exam table.

I have been reminded once again that healing takes time, that good care matters, and that sometimes the hardest thing for a veterinarian to do is sit still.

At least for six weeks.

We’ll see how that goes.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Fragility of Life

Just west of Castle Dale, the sky above Horn Mountain turns the color of cinnamon on clear summer evenings as the sun slips behind the western horizon over the country I call home. The air is rich with the scent of freshly cut alfalfa and grass, mingled with roses, cottonwoods, sagebrush, and lilacs.

If you travel west along Bott Lane, just beyond the tall poplar trees, you will come to a parcel of ground homesteaded by my great-great-grandfather. It has passed from one generation to the next, from fathers to sons, and through all the years it has remained in our family.

On the eastern edge of that land, the silhouettes of a Ford tractor and a Hesston Hydroswing swather were familiar fixtures on many summer evenings of my childhood. Seated high on that tractor was my uncle, Jerry Bott.

Uncle Jerry was a giant in every sense of the word. He stood well over six feet tall, but it was his gentleness that made him truly remarkable. His quiet voice, his deliberate words, and his unfailing kindness were among his greatest gifts. Twice each day, before I went to milk our cows, I would stop by his house. He became a constant in my life—an anchor as I grew from a boy into the man I would become.

One evening nearly three decades ago, Uncle Jerry was cutting the first crop of hay. The season’s first cutting is always the most demanding. The grass stands tall and thick, and the swather requires constant attention to keep the knives and rollers from plugging.

This is also the time of year when ring-necked pheasants are nesting. The hens sit so still and so faithfully that even the thunder of machinery and the trembling earth beneath them cannot drive them from their eggs. Sometimes they are injured or killed, and the nest—whether filled with warm eggs or newly hatched chicks—is left defenseless against hawks overhead and the foxes and raccoons lurking in the Russian olives along Cottonwood Creek.

As the sun disappeared behind the towering cliffs of Horn Mountain, I stood barefoot on my parents’ lawn, watching for the familiar two-toned tan GMC Sierra. My hero was coming home.

When Uncle Jerry stepped from the truck, he carried a brown paper grocery sack tucked beneath one arm. Instead of walking to his house across the street, he came directly toward me.

“Isaac,” he called in his deep, gentle voice, “I have something for you.”

He handed me the sack.

Inside, wrapped carefully in a green towel, were eight olive-colored eggs.

“These are pheasant eggs,” he said. “They need someone to take care of them.”

Then he looked at me and added words I have never forgotten.

“Isaac, I know you’ll do a good job.”

I stood there holding the bag as he turned and walked back across the street.

How do you hatch pheasant eggs? I wondered.

My incubator was nothing fancy—just a Styrofoam box with a small heating element inside. I learned that pheasant eggs incubate for twenty-three days, so I adjusted the temperature and humidity and laid the eggs gently inside.

For three weeks, I turned those eggs three times each day.

And somehow, all eight hatched.

The chicks were tiny and perfect, their soft tan feathers marked with dark brown stripes running neatly down their backs.

I could hardly contain my excitement.

“Uncle Jerry,” I said, “I did it! The eggs hatched!”

He smiled.

“That’s wonderful, Isaac. I knew you could do it.”

Those simple words filled me with a sense of light and possibility. In that moment, I felt capable of anything.

The world, with all its power and wisdom—its libraries, its evidence, its accomplishments—shrinks into insignificance when compared to the quiet lesson my uncle taught me that summer evening: life is fragile, precious, and worthy of our care.

Over the years, Uncle Jerry repeated that same encouragement as I made my way through the brambles and thorns of life. When I graduated from high school, college, and eventually veterinary school, his faith in me never wavered.

His advice was simple and profound.

“Isaac, find your passion. Cultivate it. Work hard. Be the best you can be. Then share it with the world.”

In late 2016, my beloved Uncle Jerry passed away. His death left tears in many eyes and an ache in every heart in our family.

I like to imagine that somewhere beyond the clouds, in the cinnamon-colored sky west of Castle Dale, a precious angel now resides.

Some things never change. Other things change us forever.

That summer evening changed me.

The lesson Uncle Jerry taught me was not lost.

Every day, as I care for my four-legged patients, I remember the immense value of life. Some lives are saved. Others are lost. In every case, I am reminded how important it is for someone to step forward—to care for the helpless and to speak for those who have no voice.

This is the lesson my dear Uncle Jerry taught me.

It is a responsibility I hold sacred.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Hippopotamus

Years ago, I was swimming in Lima, Peru, when I saw one of my favorite breeds of dog paddling through the pool—a Peruvian Inca Orchid.

For those unfamiliar, the Peruvian Inca Orchid is a remarkable breed. Sleek. Ancient. Elegant. Completely hairless. They are native to Peru. Normally, they weigh around 40–50 pounds.

This one had apparently moved to a much larger neighborhood.

He was a magnificent specimen—round, buoyant, and glistening in the Peruvian sun like a well-fed river creature with excellent self-esteem. His owner was helping him swim, and he was doing his best, rolling through the water with all the grace of a canoe full of potatoes.

Just then, a small child walked to the edge of the pool. He stopped. He stared. His little brow wrinkled with the honest confusion only a child can get away with.

Then he looked up at his mother and asked, “Is that a hippopotamus?”

His mother laughed and said, “No, son. It’s just a large dog.”

And technically, she was right.

But I saw the boy’s point.

From his angle, that hairless, barrel-bodied dog drifting through the water looked less like a pet and more like something that ought to be featured on a nature documentary.

Children have a gift for saying the thing everyone else is trying not to say. Adults dress things up. We soften the edges. We say “big-boned,” “stout,” “well-conditioned,” or “food motivated.”

A child just looks at the pool and says, “hippopotamus.”

And sometimes, there is wisdom in that.

Veterinary medicine has taught me that beauty comes in many shapes. Some animals are graceful. Some are majestic. Some are aerodynamic.

But every one of them has a story, a personality, and someone who loves them.

That big Peruvian Inca Orchid may not have been built like a show dog, but he was loved enough to be swimming in a pool in Lima with his owner right beside him. And that says something.

Sometimes love looks like ribbons and perfect posture.

Sometimes it looks like a hairless dog doing laps while a child questions his taxonomic classification.

Either way, it made me smile.

And that oversized Peruvian Inca Orchid truly did look vaguely Hippopotamus amphibius.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

There is something profoundly humbling about standing at the edge of loss. It strips away pretense. It reminds us what actually mattered all along.

What matters is how people felt around us.

Did they feel seen?
 Did they feel loved? 
Did they feel less alone?

Around Ken, people felt less alone. And that may be one of the greatest compliments a person can leave behind.

I suspect Heaven feels a little steadier tonight.

A little kinder.

A little more like home.

Because Ken Peay arrived there.

On this side of the sky, men like Ken do not come along very often.

He was as tough as steel.

Not pretend tough. Not performative tough. But genuinely tough—the kind forged slowly through hardship, responsibility, sacrifice, and years of standing firm when life demanded everything a man had to give.

From 1970 to 1973, Ken was stationed in West Germany during one of the most dangerous periods in modern history. His assignment was to cross into East Germany and obtain reconnaissance photographs. Every mission carried risk. Every crossing carried uncertainty. On one occasion, his vehicle was narrowly missed by active gunfire.

Most people could never fully comprehend the pressure of living under that kind of constant threat.

But Ken endured it quietly.

And when his military service ended, his service to others did not.

He returned home and dedicated 29 years to the Utah Highway Patrol. He rose to become head of the Utah County service office and later served as lieutenant commander of the Mounted Patrol during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He also served as bodyguard to Governors Bangerter and Matheson.

It is the kind of life story most people only read about.

A life marked by courage, by duty, by sacrifice, and steadiness. 

But what strikes me most about Ken is that despite everything he accomplished, he never carried himself as though he were above anyone else. There was no arrogance in him. Only quiet confidence.

As a child, I was obsessed with He-Man action figures. My favorite was always Man-At-Arms—the commander of the royal guard. He had piercing eyes, a thick mustache, and represented strength, loyalty, and unwavering dedication. To me, he embodied what a protector should be.

The first time I met Ken Peay, I remember thinking I had just met Man-At-Arms in real life. He possessed all the same qualities. He had strength without cruelty, authority without ego, and loyalty without condition. He was a man’s man in the truest sense of the phrase.

And somehow, this mountain of a man became my friend. I honestly still struggle to express how much that friendship has meant to me.

Ken volunteered hundreds upon hundreds of hours helping care for the reindeer herd at Mountain West Animal Hospital. And I say this sincerely: he is the only person I ever trusted completely with those animals.

Reindeer are sensitive creatures. They read people remarkably well. Nervous energy unsettles them. Impatience agitates them.

But Ken had this remarkable calmness about him.

Even the reindeer sensed it.

His observant eye, steady demeanor, and quiet patience brought peace wherever he went.

Twice, I needed help transporting reindeer from Oregon to Utah—a grueling trip of nearly 900 miles each direction. And twice, Ken never hesitated. He hooked up his own gooseneck trailer, climbed into his truck, and simply showed up.

That was Ken.

He just did what needed to be done.

I could tell stories like this for hours. Stories of loyalty. Stories of kindness. Stories of quiet sacrifice that nobody else ever saw. 

Because the thing about Ken was this: He loved through action.

Cowboys rarely announce their love in speeches or dramatic displays. They express it through reliability. Through service. Through showing up when storms roll in.

And Ken showed up.

Every single time.

I think one reason this loss feels so heavy is because people like Ken begin to feel permanent to us. We subconsciously believe they will always be there. Always standing steady against the wind. Always ready to help. Always carrying strength enough for everyone around them.

But eventually even the strongest cowboys face their final storm.

In late 2023, Ken was diagnosed with multiple myeloma—the same relentless cancer that claimed Governor Matheson years earlier. A cruel disease that attacks the bone marrow and immune system.

And yet, true to who he was, Ken faced that diagnosis the same way he faced every challenge in his life.

Head-on.

With grit forged in the trenches. With humility. With courage to lead when the path is uncertain.

He pulled his hat down tight and endured chemotherapy, radiation, pain, exhaustion, and eventually a stem cell transplant. Treatments that would break many people physically and emotionally.

But not Ken.

He endured it all with the stoicism of a cowboy.

And through that experience, he taught me something I will carry the rest of my life:

Toughness is not the absence of pain.

Toughness is refusing to surrender to it.

He faced it all directly.

And in doing so, he taught the rest of us how to stand a little taller ourselves.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that the greatest men are rarely the loudest men.

They are the dependable ones.

The ones who answer the phone.

The ones who help move cattle in a storm.

The ones who quietly pull suffering onto their own shoulders, so others do not have to carry it alone.

The ones whose integrity remains intact long after nobody is watching.

That was Ken Peay.

And this world desperately needs more men like him.

Ten years ago, my marriage began to fall apart, I found myself walking through one of the most painful and disorienting seasons of my life. There are hurts so deep that they are difficult to even put into words. The pages of that chapter were hard to read, let alone live.

And through all of it, Ken listened.

Then he listened some more.

He never rushed me. Never minimized the pain. Never tried to offer shallow answers to wounds that were far too deep for clichés. He simply sat with me in it.

I still remember his words:
“Isaac, I am so sorry.”

And he meant it.

You could feel the sincerity in his voice. You could feel his heart breaking alongside yours. There was something profoundly healing about being truly heard by someone who genuinely cared.

Ken had that gift.

He helped me navigate some very dark days. In many ways, he helped me slowly turn the pages of my life that at the time felt almost impossible to read. When grief, disappointment, and uncertainty clouded everything ahead, he offered steadiness, compassion, and friendship without condition.

That kind of presence in another person’s life is sacred.

And I will always be grateful that when I needed someone most, Ken was there.

A few months ago, I found myself at the oncology center for one of my regular therapeutic phlebotomies for hemochromatosis. Sitting in the chair beside me was my friend, Ken Peay. For four long years, Ken endured the kind of treatments that test a person physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The oncology center had become part of his life in a way none of us would ever choose.

When he saw me there, his face changed immediately. He was deeply concerned.

“Isaac, what are you doing here?” he asked.

I explained that I was there for routine phlebotomy treatments related to iron overload. But even then—even while carrying his own burdens, his own uncertainty, his own fight—Ken’s focus turned completely toward me. He wanted to know if I was okay. He wanted to know how he could help.

I remember sitting there thinking how remarkable that was.

Here was a man walking through years of cancer treatment, yet his first instinct was concern for someone else sitting in the neighboring chair.

That was Ken.

He possessed a rare kind of goodness—the kind that does not announce itself loudly. The kind that quietly reveals itself in hospital rooms, difficult days, and sacred little moments when most people would understandably be consumed by their own suffering.

But Ken never seemed to live that way.

Even in hardship, he looked outward.
Even in pain, he carried compassion.
Even while fighting his own battle, he was trying to lift someone else.

That was the kind of man he was.

And I will never forget it. 

Ken, I want you to know something.

I love you very much.

You shaped my life more than you probably ever realized.

Your example mattered. Your friendship mattered. Your loyalty mattered.

You taught me what it means to endure with dignity. How to serve quietly.

How to remain steady in the storm.

You left fingerprints on my heart that time itself will never erase.

And while today our hearts break at saying goodbye, I cannot help but imagine that somewhere beyond this life, you are finally at peace.

No more pain. No more hospitals. No more treatments. No more storms to weather.

Just open country.

And I imagine you there now—

Strong once again.

Sitting horseback. 

Collar turned up.

Hat pulled low.

Finally, home.

Cowboys like Ken never truly leave us.

Part of them remains behind in every life they touched.

And though today Ken rides farther ahead than the rest of us can yet follow, I believe with all my heart that someday, down the trail, we will see our friend again.

I love you, my dear friend. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM