My Take Tuesday: Why did you become a veterinarian?

I hear this question on a regular basis. Each veterinarian has a story about why he or she decided to pursue a career in veterinary medicine. Most veterinarians share a commonality – that they have always wanted to be a veterinarian as long as they can remember. My story is a little bit different. I have always loved animals but didn’t decide to become a veterinarian until the age of 21.

To tell my story, I must start at the beginning. I was raised on a small farm in Castle Dale, UT. My first responsibilities as a child were to feed the chickens and gather the eggs. I began this task at 6 years of age. Each year we would purchase a variety of baby chicks from Murray McMurray hatchery. They would arrive at the post office on a scheduled day. I would wait with eager anticipation for this time. To me it was just like Christmas.
My dad would let each of us pick out a chick that was “ours”. I would always name mine. I first experienced the remarkable human – animal bond with my chickens. I loved every single one of them. I was elated when they began laying eggs and I cried when they each one eventually died. As a child, chickens became my favorite animal, and remain so until today.

Even though I spent my entire childhood around animals, I did not put much thought into becoming a veterinarian. In high school, I took an aptitude test. The test results suggested that I would not make a good veterinarian for one simple reason: I was not introverted. According to that particular test, an extrovert would likely not be successful as a veterinarian. Assuming that these tests were accurate, I pushed the veterinary idea out of my head and considered a law degree.

After I graduated from high school, I spent the next two years in Peru. I was immersed in a culture so much different from the one I was used to. It took nearly a year for me to adjust and to speak fluent Spanish. I remember walking down the street in Casma, Peru one day and seeing a group of men in the process of castrating a bull. It was a sight that I will never forget. They were beating the testicles with a large stick to destroy the testicular tissue and render the bull sterile. The brutality was sickening. I remember feeling so sorry for the bull.

That night I laid in bed thinking about why they would castrate a bull in such a barbaric fashion. I realized that perhaps that was the only way they knew how. Maybe they didn’t know any better. I decided at that moment that I would do all I could to teach these farmers a better way. Having a farming background, I was very familiar with animal husbandry and felt confident that I could help educate the farmers in this part of the world.

My first patient was a pig named Walter. He was a family pet that lived in a house in Casma. Walter had an attitude and his owners needed to have him castrated. I had a friend named Duilio Davelos that owned a pharmacy in town. I visited him and purchased some lidocaine, suture, iodine, and alcohol. The procedure went flawlessly.

Walter recovered very quickly. News spread of the event. Soon after, I began sending my free time on Monday’s castrating pigs. I found that these farmers were open to learning new methods. The supplies were very inexpensive, and my services were free.
Next came chickens. Because of my time spent as a child taking care of baby chicks, I was able to teach basic poultry care and even help make incubators to boost production. I soon began helping with llama and alpaca herds. Soon, other curious missionaries participated in this. In fact, a human dermatologist raised in Provo, UT had his first surgical experience South of Trujillo, Peru castrating pigs! It was very fulfilling to be able to help people out in this fashion. I felt like I was really accomplishing something. I was giving them something that would change the way they would treat their animals. No longer would they brutally castrate their animals without local anesthetic. They also knew how to surgically prep the skin, which eliminated so many post-operative infections. I was helping people by helping their pets. It made me so happy.

As my time in Peru ended, I boarded a plane in Lima and headed back to the USA. As I sat in my seat, I reflected on the past two years. My thoughts kept returning to the animal services I rendered. It was in that moment, high in the air, that I decided to become a veterinarian. I landed in Utah, and a few weeks later began my first college classes. After 8 1/2 years or arduous study, my goal was reached, and I became a veterinarian.

I often reflect on the decision I made. I look at how happy I am now. I love what I do. I love helping people by helping their animals. I have never had a boring day, nor have I ever regretted this career decision. I really feel like it is what I was meant to do.

So much in life happens by chance. I was fortunate to have my agricultural upbringing. It prepared me for the future. It is impossible to look forward and connect the dots of the random chances in our lives, but looking back, I can see it clearly.

I am glad that I had the chance to provide animal care in a faraway place and how that opportunity led me down this remarkable path I am on today. I cannot imagine doing anything else.

And that is my take!
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Fragility of Life

Just west of Castle Dale, Utah, the sky above Horn Mountain turns a beautiful cinnamon on clear summer nights as the sun sets over the place that I call home. These summer nights smell of freshly cut grass and alfalfa, of roses and cottonwood trees, of sagebrush and lilacs.

If you are heading west along Bott Lane, just past the tall poplar trees, there is a piece of ground that was homesteaded by my great-great grandfather. This piece of land has passed from generation to generation, from fathers to sons, and has always remained in my family.

On the east side of this piece of land, a silhouette of a Ford Tractor and a Hesston Hydroswing Swather were visible on many beautiful summer evenings during my childhood. On the tractor, sat my uncle Jerry Bott.

Jerry was a giant of a man. He stood over 6’4”. His gentle demeanor and kind heart were his most precious of character traits. His soft voice and carefully chosen words were never cross or unkind. At least two times every day, I would be able to greet my uncle as I would enter his house before milking our cows. He became my constancy, my anchor, as I grew from a small child into the man I am today.

On this particular night almost 30 years ago, in 1990, my uncle Jerry was cutting the first crop of hay. The tall grass makes this cutting the most difficult on the equipment. Constant attention must be given to the rotating wheel and hay knives that were prone to clogging.

This time of year, hen Ringneck pheasants are on their nests. They sit so still that even the loud rumbling of a tractor and the ground tremors of the hay cutter leave her undeterred. Occasionally, these hens are injured or killed as they sit on their eggs. The nest, whether it be full of chirping hatchings or incubating eggs, is left to the merciless predators from the air and the nearby fortress of trees and Russian Olives that run along Cottonwood Creek.

As the sun faded behind the towering cliffs of Horn Mountain, I stood on my parents’ lawn, looking eagerly at the approaching two-toned tan GMC Sierra. My hero was coming home for the night.

As Jerry exited his truck, he held under his arm a brown paper grocery bag. His long stride headed towards me instead of his house across the street.

As he approached, he called my name.

“Isaac,” his low and gentle voice called, “I have something for you.”

He handed me the brown paper bag.

Inside, a green towel was wrapped gently around 8 medium sized olive-colored eggs.

“These are pheasant eggs,” he continued, “and they need to be cared for.”

“Isaac, I know that you will do a good job at taking care of them.”

I looked in the sack as Jerry walked back across the street and into his house.

“How do you hatch pheasant eggs?”, I wondered as I entered my parent’s house.

My incubator was nothing special, just a Styrofoam box with a small heater inside. Knowing that peasant eggs incubate for 23 days, I set the temperature and humidity and carefully laid the eggs inside.

I faithfully turned the eggs three times a day for three weeks.

Somehow, the incubation was successful, and the eggs all hatched out. The tan chicks had dark brown stripes that ran parallel along their backs.

I was overjoyed when I told my uncle Jerry about my accomplishment.

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

“That is great!”, he responded, “Isaac, I knew you could do it.”

His response and validation filled my system with light and my soul with joy.

The world with all of its power and wisdom, with all the gilded glory and show, its libraries and evidence, shrink into complete insignificance when compared to the simple lesson of the fragility and value of life that my uncle Jerry taught me that warm summer evening.

Over the years, uncle Jerry often repeated this encouragement as I navigated the brambles and thorns of life. When I graduated high school, then college and eventually veterinary school, his reassurance illuminated my understanding of my potential and his unwavering love and support. He gently counseled me, “Isaac, find your passion. Cultivate it. Work hard and be the best that you can be. And then share it with the world.” 

There are days that change the times and there is a time to say goodbye. My sweet uncle Jerry passed away in late 2016. His loss left a tear in the eye and a hole in the heart of all my family members.

There is a place beyond the clouds, in the cinnamon sky to the west of Castle Dale, where a precious angel resides.

It seems that that there are things that will never change. Yet, there are things that change us all. This experience absolutely changed me.

My uncle Jerry’s lesson, from long ago, was not lost on me.

Every day, I remember the immense value of life, as I attend to my four-legged patients.

As lives are saved and others are lost, I remember how important it is for someone to take initiative and to tend to the responsibility to care for the helpless and to speak for those without a voice.

This is a lesson my dear uncle Jerry so effectively showed me how to apply and live, and it is a responsibility I take most sacredly.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Cowboy

He is as tough as steel.

He was stationed in East Germany from 1970-1973.  He was tasked with crossing over to West Germany to take reconnaissance photographs. The threat of capture was a constant. On one occasion, while in transit, his vehicle was narrowly missed by active fire.  

Following Germany, he pursued a distinguished career of 29 years for the Utah Highway Patrol. He served as head of the Utah County service office. He also was assigned lieutenant commander of the Mounted Patrol of security during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He also was the bodyguard for Utah governors Bangerter and Matheson.  His storied career is something regular people like me could only dream of accomplishing.

As a child, my favorite action figures were He-Man toys. I had quite the collection. My go-to was one named Man-At-Arms. He was the commander of the Royal Guard. He was fiercely loyal to He-Man.  Man -At-Arms had piercing brown eyes and a mustache. I would spend hours and hours playing with these action figures.

The first time I met Ken Peay, I felt like I was meeting a real-life Man-At-Arms. I found him to be everything the hero of my childhood stood for. He was loyal, he was a doting father, and a hard-working farmer. 

Somehow, this mountain of a man became my friend. He has volunteered hundreds of hours helping me care for the resident reindeer herd at Mountain West Animal Hospital. He is the only person I trust with these pets. His observant eye and gentle voice calm even the flightiest reindeer.

On two occasions, I needed help transporting reindeer to Utah from Western Oregon. He dropped everything. Not only that, but he also drove his own pickup truck and pulled a gooseneck trailer. He traveled to Eugene, Oregon and back to Utah. Over 900 miles each way. He made this trip TWICE. 

I could write dozens and dozens of stories just like these. Ken is a wonderful and genuine person. The best of the best. I love him dearly. 

Governor Matheson died in 1990 from a pernicious cancer called Multiple Myeloma. This unfair opponent rarely loses. It ravages the bone marrow and destroys the immune system.  

Ken received this same diagnosis last year. He faced this giant with stoicism, with determination and with the toughness of a cowboy. He put his boots on, pulled his hat down tight and quietly endured the debilitating treatments and horrific side effects that accompany them. After several months of these relentless treatments, he went through the arduous process of receiving a stem cell transplant. Thankfully, the transplant was a success. Hour by hour, day by day Ken has steadily regained his strength. His toughness is an inspiration to me. 

Many of us simply give up when faced with a seemingly insurmountable challenge. The desire to quit afflicts all of us. One day its summer. Fall suddenly is here and gone in a flash. And without warning, the icy hand of winter is knocking at your door. These challenges present in our relationships, our employment or in the day-to-day changes that life inevitably presents. While an ordinary man may face fear and quickly submit to its overwhelming presence, Ken faced it strait on. 

A few years ago, during a severe winter storm, I passed a herd of bison standing in a large meadow on the side of the road. The storm was intense, with over 18 inches of accumulation is just a few hours. The bison, ironically, stood still in the middle of the meadow. In conditions that would kill entire herds of cattle, these majestic animals stand face first in the winter fury as the wind blows and the snow accumulates. They don’t turn their hindquarters into the wind, nor do they move with it. They stand and face the storms of life undaunted, stoic, and valiant. 

Perhaps we would do well to emulate the bison, as we encounter the uncertainties and challenges that we face in life. The storms of life will inevitably come, so why not face them?  And face them with strength, determination, and power.  Sure, it’ll feel uncomfortable at first. It may even be scary. However, if we get comfortable with the feeling of being uncomfortable – that discomfort will begin to lessen.

I don’t know how long your storm will last or how intense it is. But I am confident we will all fare the storm better if we face it head on. Just breathe, put your head down and find a way through. We must have tough times to fully appreciate the good times that lie ahead. 

Ken, thank you for teaching me this lesson. I look forward to the good times ahead. 

And that is my take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Value of a Mentor

During the last year of most veterinary school programs, time is set aside for students to spend away from the veterinary school immersed in clinical practice in what is known as a preceptorship. At Washington State University, this is a four-credit (four-week) guided preceptorship experience.

I didn’t have the luxury of visiting the list of clinics that provided a mixed-animal (a clinic that treats large and small animals) preceptorship because of my chaotic schedule of rotations at the veterinary school. Instead, I sat in an office and read over a binder of information about the possible selections. A new clinic had just been added to the book that was offering a guided preceptorship for the first time. The name of the clinic was Mt. Spokane Veterinary Hospital. It was located north of Spokane, in Mead, right off Newport Highway. I had a gut feeling that this would be the best place for me to complete my preceptorship. I would be the very first student preceptor at the clinic.

Of all the training I have received during my career as a veterinarian, I count the four weeks spent at Mt. Spokane Veterinary Hospital as the most influential and consequential in where I am today.

I found the team at the hospital very welcoming and nurturing. Every team member made me feel welcome from day one. I quickly learned of the flow of the hospital and began assisting in appointments and surgeries.

Drs. Randy Scott and Luther McConnel were very generous with their time. Having a student dampens the efficiency of the clinic as it requires much time and patience. Busy veterinary practices can be extremely intense to the exclusion of student education. I found their practice to be the exact opposite. The case load was vast and diverse, but they took the time to make sure I felt involved and that I was learning about the routine cases that rarely present to veterinary school teaching hospitals.

Veterinary school does not provide much surgical experience. We learn anatomy and have extensive classroom training on tissue handling and surgery, but actual hands-on surgery is something that is typically acquired away from the veterinary school.

During my month working with Dr. Scott, I had the opportunity to tweak and refine my surgical skills. Dr. Scott never criticized me, rather he gave me pointers on how to hold surgical instruments and how to precisely use a scalpel and place suture knots. He did this in a manner that was constructive and not condescending. He created an environment of learning. He saw something in me that I did not see. He taught me to trust my skill and my ability as I entered the real world as a practicing veterinarian. He became a trusted mentor.

Dr. Randy Scott is a truly unselfish person who helped me with little in return. He was genuinely altruistic. He built my confidence, encouraged me to grow, and patiently watched me fall and regain my balance. He saw something in me that I didn’t even know I possessed.

The word “mentor” as applied to such a person has its roots in Greek mythology. In the Odyssey, Mentor was a character who advised and protected Odysseus’ son Telemachus. A 1699 novel called Les Aventures de Télémaque (“The Adventures of Telemachus”), introduced a character named Mentor who served as Telemachus’ tutor. Mentor was the hero of the story, and turned out to be Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, in disguise. The modern usage of the term “mentor” seems to have arisen from that book.

A great mentor wants you to succeed, and he or she will actively support your success with words and action. The great mentor will never be envious or feel threatened by your growth; he or she will congratulate you on your triumphs and help you recover from your setbacks. The generous mentor will make connections or offer resources that could be useful to you whenever he or she can. Most important, a generous mentor believes in your potential, and communicates that to you freely and with hope. The generous mentor supports you to become the person you want to become.

How grateful I am for the mentorship I received under Dr. Randy Scott. Looking back at all the opportunities I’ve had as veterinarian have pivoted on the training I received from him. My first veterinary work on deer, elk and moose all began during my time at his clinic. I would have never had the courage to work with reindeer without this essential knowledge base. My surgical skill, from the way I hold my suture and my needle drivers, to the way I perform orthopedic surgery, all began and were nurtured under his mentorship. He taught me that what we did was small and beautiful- but that the animals we helped were precious.

Over the years, I have remained close with Dr. Scott. He has even stopped in to visit my veterinary hospital in Springville. He has done so much for me and taught me so much about science, about life, about everything. My biggest fear has always been in letting him down. I work my hardest so that he can be proud of me and to show him that his trust in me was not wasted.

The true test of one’s character comes when there exists no sphere of recognition potential, no roar and support of a crowd and no chance of fame or fortune. Being simply motivated by the genuine desire to help others, never entertaining the thought of self-interest, is the defining characteristic of a good mentor.

If you are lucky, and few of us are, at some point in your life you acquire a good mentor. Timing and chance aligned in my life, and I was able to find one. I will forever count this mentor as a cherished and dear friend.

And that is my take,

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Pictured is Dr. Randy Scott and I at Mountain West Animal Hospital

My Take Tuesday: Where the Daffodils Grow 

On 22 August 1877 Brigham Young issued a formal call for settlers to locate in Castle Valley. This was the last such directive from the “Great Colonizer” before his death just 7 days later. If you have ever visited Emery County, you come away with the realization that the best was saved for last.

Castle Valley is a state of extremes, from the mystical beauty of the towering Wasatch Mountains to the west to the highest order of desolation in the San Rafael Desert on the east. Even there, among the sage brush and cedars, a pristine beauty beckons the attentive eye. 

My great- great grandfather – Boye Petersen heeded Brigham Young’s call and was one of the original settlers of Castle Dale. He homesteaded the West Farm – a 48 acre piece of land that our family still owns today. The straight road it is on connects Castle Dale with Orangeville and is aptly named Bott Lane. 

Growing up in Castle Dale helped me develop three unique character traits that have proven useful throughout my life.  I developed a strong work ethic, a vivid imagination and a unique self-awareness. This is home. There is something about Emery County that heals my soul. It is my constancy and my serene sanctuary where I can reflect and recharge. Even though I now reside two hours north in Utah County, I still feel connected and drawn to the well-worn paths of my youth and the Blue Clay Hills just south of Castle Dale. I have Trail Mountain lightning running through my veins and the Castle Valley thunder pounding in my chest. 

Winters in Castle Valley can be brutal. The snow and ice seem to linger. Farm chores like milking and feeding cows are much more difficult the longer the winter draws on. Piles of cow manure freeze as solid as stone and the ground around water troughs turns into a sheet of ice. One cannot help but feel a longing for warmer weather and new life.

In late winter, each morning and afternoon, I would leave my parents’ house and cross the street on my way to the corral. I would walk along a shaded well-worn path along the east and south side of my uncle Jerry’s house. Between the edge of the house and the sidewalk, green stems would suddenly poke through the frozen ground. The first sight of these unassuming leaves beckons to the attentive eye that the worst of winter is passed, and that spring is soon to follow. 

The leaves and stems grow quickly, symbolizing rebirth and new beginnings. They bloom with their cheery yellow hues. Each one is perfect, a golden trumpet amid a fanfare of halo petal. 

Daffodils are majestic, but so delicate, and they wave like tomorrow is guaranteed. 

After a few short weeks, they are gone, not returning for the remainder of the year. 

The Latin name for daffodil is Narcissus. It is believed to be named after the son of the river god from Greek mythology. 

Its blooming happiness may be fleeting but at the very least, it’s still enjoyed by those observant enough to see its beauty. They stand rooted, soaking in the sunshine and taking in yesterday’s rain through their fine roots. 

Daffodils remind me of my sweet uncle Jerry. He passed away in 2016. He was a gentle giant and, along with his twin brother Jeffry, are the kindest people I have ever known. 

As the snow melts and the days get longer, the robins and sparrows will return as a symbol of change. And once again natures palate will color Castle Valley. 

When the canyon rivers and mountain streams flow, spring will follow at last, in Castle Dale, UT, where the daffodils grow. 

And that is my take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Itch Is On!

Spring is a beautiful time of year in Utah County! As winter loses it overpowering grip, new life emerges. The smell of flowers, fresh green grass and the sound of birds chirping will invoke feelings of happiness in those yearning for warmer weather. 

During springtime, a dichotomy of sorts is presented. While I love this time of year immensely, its arrival brings in the annual ritual of sniffling and sneezing, a runny nose, and itchy eyes. Atopy, the genetic predisposition to allergies, has plagued my family for generations. We all have severe allergies to grass, alfalfa, and flowers.

While growing up, a rosebush outside my bedroom window would beautifully bloom each spring. This rosebush brought me seasonal misery and debilitating symptoms and endless nights of wheezing, sniffing and itchy red eyes. I hated that rosebush! I remember having such severe attacks, that I would lay in bed with a cold washcloth over my eyes, unable to sleep or do anything productive. On the worst of these nights, I scribbled a journal entry at the height of allergy season that simply read, “Today more allergies, oh I hate them.”

I have sympathy for my veterinary patients that suffer from allergies. All too frequently, they present in complete disarray. Instead of the runny noses, itchy eyes, sneezing, or wheezing allergies mean to many people, pet allergies typically show up as scratching, chewing, rubbing, head-shaking or severe ear infections. Often dogs present with bleeding paws and open sores all over their body. These lesions are caused by continuous scratching. This insatiable itch drives them crazy. Every waking hour they spend trying to scratch the itch away.

Allergies are by far the most common illness I see as a veterinarian. It is sad to see pets suffering so. When pets suffer, they are at least as miserable as we are — and likely much more.

With each case, we try to provide suggestions specific to your pet, your region, and your season, but in general, you can help your pet a great deal with an allergy-prevention regimen in the home.

Concurrently, you can limit the amount of dust and other irritants pets sweep up in their coats by vacuuming and using electrostatic cleaning products (such as a Swiffer) on floor surfaces as well as using room or whole house filtration systems. And while you may have heard that frequent shampooing strips the skin of essential oils, veterinary dermatologists now recommend bathing pets at least every week (up to everyday for extremely at-risk, allergic pets) during the spring and summer to help wash allergens off the coat and skin before they can be absorbed and trigger an allergic reaction. Spray-on products or wipes that provide a dry bath will often do the trick and may be a great deal easier than bathing for some dogs and almost all cats.

Often, it’s not just about airborne allergens or parasites: Pets suffer from food allergies as well. Allergy reactions to pet food are usually caused by proteins, and can include beef, egg, milk or cheese products, soy or even fish. If food allergies are suspected, your veterinarian will guide you through food-elimination trials to find the culprit and recommend a diet that’s both nutritionally complete and contains pre-digested proteins. If your dog suffers from a food allergy but still needs to take medications, Greenies Pill Pockets Allergy Formula capsules may help. These are little pouches, made from peas and duck that facilitate medication administration by providing a treat disguise for pill administration. 

Recently, immunotherapeutic treatments have been released that target small inflammatory proteins called cytokines. Cytopoint is an injection for the management of itching from allergic skin disease.  It targets Interleukin-31, a substance that causes itching when dogs have allergies, and works as an antibody, thus binding to and deactivating the cause of the itching sensation. This product provides significant relief to many of my patients.  

Please don’t let your pets suffer. Schedule an appointment with your veterinarian and then work together to provide the life free of pain and suffering that each of your four-legged family members deserve.

With modern veterinary options and a world of new products to help, the pet with allergies can be managed better than ever before. And that means you and your pet will both sleep better, after you’ve stopped the itch.

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Spit Happens

I received a call a while back regarding a sick llama. It was from a new client that wanted to know if I knew anything about llamas and alpacas. 

Calls like this are somewhat frequent. Asking a vet if they know anything about llamas is like asking a pediatrician if they know anything about 8-year-olds. I responded that I was indeed familiar with all camelids and had worked extensively with them as a veterinarian.

As I arrived at the farm, it was obvious that this wasn’t a typical llama ranch. It appeared I had traveled back in time to the 60’s. I was meandering into an apparent neighborhood of Hippie-ville. The van parked outside the gate looked just like the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo. 

The bright colors were also painted on each of the barns and small buildings of the property and even covered the bases of the tall Chinese Elm trees.

One would not immediately equate going barefoot with farm life, I suppose, especially if the farm in question is shared with livestock. There are serious concerns regarding hook worm, and other parasites that could easily be transferred through the lack of shoes, and to be certain, stepping on manure barefoot has little appeal to the average person. However, a couple of barefooted and worry-free people were standing at the end of the driveway to greet me on this particular day.

One of the owners held a small white paper cup in her hands. As I greeted her, she held the cup up and asked me to take a sip.

“What is it?”, I asked, not fully anticipating the response I received.

“It is Holy Water”, she responded. “We always make the healer drink before the llama.”

Perhaps the shock of the colorful ambience and barefoot attendants clouded my judgement, whatever the reason, I grabbed the cup and took a small drink. Immediately, I realized my mistake, but could do nothing but swallow the mysterious potion. It was the most disgusting thing I had ever ingested. I smiled, and politely asked where the sick llama was located.

The large white llama was setting in a “cush” position, a term llama farmers use for sternal recumbency. As I approached, he raised his mouth in the air and pinned his ears back against his head.

I moved cautiously, as these signs are consistent with a llama that is going to spit at you. This nasty dark green elixir is not spit at all but is the regurgitated contents from the first stomach compartment. The slew is a mixture of partially digested feed, stomach juice and miscellaneous microbes.

Llamas are well aware of a veterinarian’s never-ending quest to stick needles in them; and if provoked, they will spit copiously at you with unpleasant accuracy of aim.

There is a classic sound a llama will make before spitting. The unmistakable gurgling sound is followed by a distinct “pfffffpth”, as the stomach contents spew from the mouth.

The cause of the llama’s discomfort was a large Russian Olive thorn sticking out from the back of the left elbow. I gently reached down and removed the dagger like thorn.

It appeared as though I had escaped unscathed. The llama, with its ears still pinned back, watched me closely, but did not spit.

As I turned my head slightly, I began to speak with the owners. I explained the aftercare that would be required for a full recovery and encouraged them to remove the large Russian Olive plants that lined the south side of their pasture. I asked if they had any questions and turned back towards the llama.

My mouth was between words then the attack happened. The trajectory and accuracy were unparalleled. The llama spit with sharp-shooter accuracy, and the stomach contents went directly into my mouth.

I immediately began to gag. I then began to dry heave uncontrollably. The owners stood in awe as I struggled to rid my mouth of the fowl taste of fermented llama feed.

There is no amount of Listerine that can remove the taste of llama spit. It will stay in your mouth for days.

“Are you alright?” the bearded man asked.

“Yeah”, I muttered, as I looked up.

“You got to learn to keep your mouth closed, Doc”, he continued, “Especially if you are going to work on llamas.”

I didn’t know how to respond. After working on literally thousands of llamas and alpacas, this was the first time spit had actually entered my mouth.

I accepted my defeat and curiously inquired, “Can I have another sip of Holy Water?”

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Wednesday, March 9, 2005, was a typical day. During this stage of my life, I was finishing up coursework and getting ready to graduate from Southern Utah University. My classes ended at noon, and I found myself with some time free in the afternoon and decided to go shopping for a new chest of drawers.

I jumped in my Chevy S-10 and headed south on Main Street in Cedar City, Utah. I noticed remnants of a recent snowstorm lingered on either side of the road piled up along the sidewalks. Per usual, I listened to KONY country when driving around town. A Chris LeDoux song came over the waves. Instinctively, I cranked up the volume and listened to the tune. As the song ended a second Chris LeDoux song began to play. Hearing a Chris LeDoux song on the radio is not an everyday occurrence. A radio station playing two songs in a row was unheard of. My heart sank. I knew something had happened. As the second song finished, the DJ announced that earlier in the day, Chris LeDoux had lost his battle to a rare form of cancer called cholangiocarcinoma.

Chris was a man’s man. Anything he did, he did well. He wasn’t born with extraordinary talent, but with hard work and dedication he became extraordinary. He was an award-winning sculpture, a world champion bareback rider and a world-class country music musician.

Chris’ music was a constancy during my youth. When I was working on the farm, I often would listen to his songs. One song talked about digging and tamping postholes and stretching the wires tight. Another detailed the intricacies of irrigating alfalfa. His lyrics seemed to represent a lot of what I knew in life. Still to this day, as I’ve had the opportunity to travel, I often find lyrics that mention the cities and places that I visit from Spokane to Manhattan, Salt Lake to Seattle, up north from Billings to the Yukon River and down south from Fort Worth to San Antonio.

I had the opportunity to see Chris perform dozens of times in concert. He was such a gentleman and the best performer I have ever seen. Today marks 19 years since his passing.

In his last studio album, Chris recorded a song called The Ride. The lyrics describe facing death with dignity and grace.

“Well, I know some day farther down the road

I’ll come to the edge of the great unknown

There’ll stand a black horse riderless

And I wonder if I’m ready for this

So, I’ll saddle him up and he’ll switch his tail

And I’ll tip my hat and bid farewell

And lift my song into the air

That I learned at that dusty fair

Sit tall in the saddle, Hold your head up high

Keep your eyes fixed where the trail meets the sky

And live like you ain’t afraid to die

And don’t be scared, just enjoy your ride”

Thanks, Chris, for living a great life and for teaching this cipher from Castle Dale, UT so many lessons about life through your determination, example, and lyrics. Good ride cowboy! Good ride!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Alpine Buttercup

One of my favorite flowers is the Alpine Buttercup. Seen only by those who venture near or above the timberline, it follows the melting snow into the sunshine. In the early spring, it fights its way up through the cold hard earth. Along the snow banks high in the Rocky Mountains, this flower is the first to emerge, often blooming through the melting snow.

I have often wondered how this plant can be so hardy. Ranunculus acraeus is a plant of environmental extremes, hence the species name acraeus, meaning “on high”.

I often wonder what it would be like if we could switch roles with the buttercup. What if we could be as resilient as this small plant?

We would become this tender whitish-yellow chute. It hasn’t felt the suns warmth, the green is yet to come. This tender seedling pushes up through the cold hard ground.

The moment it emerges, it is subject to all of the dangers and injury that can befall anything alive and growing. A wandering deer passes by and steps on the tender plant and smashes it down. Yet, the chute pushes back up.

A hungry chipmunk discovers the plant and bites off its tender delicacy. Still out of it’s reservoir of power, the buttercup pushes up.

It struggles toward to the sun, despite the adversities that attack it.

Then one day it bursts into a tight yellow bud.

It affirms that underneath the old rotten layers of winter snow there is new good life.

My thoughts turn to an exchange in one of my favorite books, Edmond, who has suffered unspeakable torture and pain is addressing a young but courageous Albert. He says, “Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout… Do your worst, for I will do mine! Then the fates will know you as we know you.” (Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo)

The fleeting emotion we call happiness, is but a comparison of one state to another. And as such, those who have experienced extreme pain and grief, are most capable to experience supreme happiness.

Life is full of brambles and thorns. It has to be. There is no growth without challenge, and no challenge occurs without some level of uncertainty and presentation of incommodious circumstances.

A few years ago, during a severe winter storm, I passed a herd of bison standing in a large meadow on the side of the road. The storm was intense, with over 18 inches of accumulation in just a few hours. The bison, ironically, stood still in the middle of the meadow. In conditions that would kill entire herds of cattle, these majestic animals stand face first in the winter fury as the wind blows and the snow accumulates. They don’t turn their hindquarters into the wind, nor do they move with it. They stand and face the storms of life undaunted, stoic and valiant.

Perhaps we would do well to emulate the bison, as we face the uncertainties and challenges that we face in life. The storms of life will inevitably come, so why not face them? And face them with strength, determination, and power. Sure, it’ll feel uncomfortable at first, it may even be scary, but if we get comfortable with the feeling of being uncomfortable – that discomfort will begin to lessen.

I don’t know how long your storm will last or how intense it is. But I am confident we will all fare the storm better if we face it head on. Just breathe, put your head down and find a way through. We must have tough times to fully appreciate the good times that lie ahead.

Just like the Alpine Buttercup, we all contribute to the beauty of this world. We are an infinitesimal part of it. Still each of us, no matter how humble, no matter how lowly or simple, we all have a critical part to play.

We only must recognize our role and take it on.

Either we bloom, or we sadly wither away.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Snowball

It was a busy morning at the clinic. Mrs. Robins arrived right on time for her scheduled appointment. She was a long time client at the clinic and was always pleasant during my interactions with her. Her hair was white, and always perfectly styled. She greeted us warmly as she came through the front door. She carried a white fluffy cat inside a pink pet carrier.

Snowball was her name. Such a name is suggestive of a soft white fluff-ball, a sweet angelic and innocent kitten. She was due for her annual vaccinations and a wellness checkup.

However, this kitty’s name is what I would call a major misnomer. Clearly, this kitty received its name long before its true nature was known.

All too often, I hear the phrase, “Doc she is an angel at home. She is just the sweetest thing.” Mrs. Robins repeated the phrase verbatim as we entered the exam room.

Snowball was sitting peaceful in her carrier. As I peered through the door of her carrier, I noticed a couple of warning signs.

When a cat is distressed, it will crouch in a unique form with the legs and tail pulled in under the body. They will extend their neck, flattening the ears against the head.

Cat bites and scratches are painful and notoriously prone to infection. As a veterinarian, I have to be very careful and observant. A cat bite on my hand could literally make me useless – everything I do on a daily basis, from surgeries to physical examinations, requires extreme dexterity and use of my hands.

“Snowball doesn’t seem very happy today,” I observed, “We need to be careful taking her out of her carrier.”

“Don’t worry doctor,” Mrs. Robins replied, as she swung open the carrier door, “She will come right out.”

Snowballs exit from the carrier was reminiscent of a rodeo bull exiting the chute during the NFR. She came flying out, hissing and swiping at everything in her path.

She leaped from the table and landed directly on Mrs. Robin’s head. She immediately extended her claws on all four feet simultaneously and plunged them into poor Mrs. Robin’s scalp.

Almost in an instant, snowball fell from atop the terrified woman’s head. Clinging desperately to a white wig. As she hit the floor, she released the hair piece and hissed. Mrs. Robins reached down and grabbed the wig and placed it back on her head.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, “She is sure mad at you!”

Dealing with a spitting and hissing feline in a demonic rage is a dangerous predicament, and can present a formidable challenge to any individual, let alone one smelling like a veterinarian.

Snowball then looked at me, hunching her back, while aggressively growling and spitting. She leaped towards me, as I jumped back. Her trajectory was clearly aimed at my upper body, and as I moved, she adjusted her posture mid-air and redirected. Her extended claws sank into my pants. I felt her claws sink into my skin and she climbed upward and onto my lab coat. She came to a stop on top of my right shoulder. Ironically, a moment of tranquility ensued. The hissing stopped and she retracted her sharp claws.

Seeing this an an opportune time, I grabbed the rabies vaccine and removed the syringe cap. I had to be supremely careful that I wouldn’t be knocked or in some other way accidentally discharge the injection into Mrs Robins or myself. At last, I found a piece of leg and carefully thrust the needle through a felted mat of fluffy white hair and into the muscle beneath.

Snowball’s reaction was unremarkable. She did not hiss or spit. She didn’t even growl.

I gently placed her back on the examination table and finished the remainder of the vaccinations and the examination.

She purred as I looked into her eyes and examined her mouth.

She entered the carrier without any hesitation upon completion of the appointment. I stood dumbfounded, what I had just witnessed made little rational sense on any level. Aggression like this that is episodic and transient, is something even animal behavior experts don’t fully understand.

“Wow, Doc, she must have just had a little rage she needed to get out of her system,” Mrs Robins stated, “She really is such a sweet little thing.”

I smiled as I glanced at the content Snowball, as she sat purring and comfortable inside her carrier.

My legs began to sting, as I felt a trickle of blood run down the front of my knee.

As Mrs. Robins left, I noticed her white hair remained immaculate, and despite having been tossed and trampled around by a wild feline, not a single piece of hair was out of place.

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM