My Take Tuesday: Veterinary Technician Appreciation Week

Being in the veterinary industry is hard work. Each day brings its share of ups and downs, happiness and heartbreak, and moments where life and death hang in the balance. By the end of the day, we’re often exhausted—physically and emotionally drained.

Since our patients can’t speak for themselves, much of our work involves communicating with their human families. In many ways, we treat the owners as much as we treat the pets. Doing this well requires a rare blend of empathy, patience, and professionalism.

Behind every good veterinarian stands a team of dedicated, compassionate individuals committed to helping people help their pets. I’m fortunate to be surrounded by an exceptional team of veterinary technicians here at Mountain West Animal Hospital.

If you’ve ever faced a pet emergency, you know how meaningful it is to have a knowledgeable and caring technician by your side. Veterinary technicians are the unsung heroes of the veterinary world. Without these devoted professionals, our hospital would be a sea of chaos. They do it all—greeting clients, answering phones, restraining animals, drawing blood, assisting in surgery, cleaning cages, and comforting both pets and people alike.

I couldn’t make it through a single day without my team. They bring the skill, heart, and steady hands that make our clinic what it is.

What most people don’t see are the emotional costs of this profession. They don’t see the quiet tears after we’ve said goodbye to a patient we’ve cared for during many years. They don’t see the long hours, the late-night emergencies, or the emotional whiplash of losing one patient and saving another within minutes. They don’t see the neglected pets we try to rehabilitate—or the physical toll this work takes: the bites, scratches, sore muscles, and aching backs.

They don’t see the blood, vomit, and messes that get cleaned up without hesitation, or the moments of triumph when a dying pet turns a corner and walks out our doors, tail wagging, ready to live more good years.

There are heroes among us who never stand in the spotlight, never hear applause, and rarely receive the recognition they deserve.

Pictured here are some of my heroes. They are my right hand and my left. They work in a high-stress environment, put in long hours, and face risks every day—all because they care. They care deeply for our clients and their four-legged family members.

This week is National Veterinary Technician Appreciation Week. Please join me in thanking these amazing women for the extraordinary work they do at Mountain West Animal Hospital.

They are, quite simply, incredible.

And that’s my take.
N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Wide Open Spaces

As a child growing up in Castle Dale, Utah, my world revolved around the small farm my family kept. We raised sheep, cattle, and chickens, and our days followed the rhythm of the pastures. One of my favorite moments came whenever we opened the gate to a new field. Whether it was fresh grass, muddy ground, or even a blanket of snow, the animals’ reaction never changed.

They would run. They would leap. They would frolic with an almost reckless joy. It didn’t matter if the new pasture was bigger, smaller, or no different than the one before—what mattered was the space. Wide open space seemed to unlock something within them, as if freedom itself was a tonic for the soul.

The older I get, the more I realize that people aren’t so different. Too often I catch myself living inside a self-imposed corral, surrounded by fences I’ve built for the sake of safety and predictability. I tell myself these barriers keep the predators out, but in truth, they mostly keep me in. And I suspect I’m not alone.

It feels secure to stay in our comfortable pastures, never risking, never stretching, never stepping into the unknown. But in doing so, we risk something far greater—missing out on the fullness of what life can offer. Comfort breeds mediocrity, and mediocrity never leads to growth.

Mark Twain once wrote, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did.” That line has always struck me. True progress, whether for animals or people, requires challenge. And challenge always comes wrapped in uncertainty, inconvenience, and even a little fear.

So today, I remind myself: it’s time to unlatch the gate. To step beyond the familiar fences. To feel the wind of possibility at my back. Like those sheep in Castle Dale, it’s time to leap and run, not because the ground is better on the other side, but because freedom itself is worth the risk.

With that, I throw off the bowlines. I set sail from the safe harbor, toes over the edge of the bow, heart open to the wide open.

It is time to explore, to dream, and to discover.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: The Milk Cows That Raised Me

I grew up where the sagebrush bends,
Where chores began before day’s end.
Two Guernsey cows, my morning call—
Mahana and Mokey, Guernseys all.

First came Mahana, hooves hittin’ the ground,
Then Mokey slipped out without makin’ a sound.
Two heifers—pure luck on that spring calvin’ night,
Dodgin’ the curse of a Freemartin’s bite.

The barn was wood—no varnish, no gleam,
Just planks held fast with weathered beam.
The milk pails rang like a supper bell,
And that old place knew how to smell—

Of sweat and stock and fresh-cut hay,
Of boots that stomped at break of day.
We didn’t need a hardwood barn floor—
Just dirt, dried dung, and not much more.

My brother and I split the daily load,
Each milking shift our own shared code.
Mahana was mine come morning’s light,
While she was Dan’s when it turned night.

In the evening, Mokey would be mine, I recall,
Bound by teat and the milking call.
Steam rose like ghosts through the cedar and pine,
As her tail swayed slow in the evening shine.

Mahana stood with quiet pride,
Like she’d taken an oath she’d never lied.
Gentle eyes, a patient grace—
She let me work at my own pace.

But Mokey? She had no chill—
A bovine rodeo, bent on will.
She’d snort and twitch and swat and fling,
Her tail could whip like a fencing string.

I tied it once… or tried, I guess—
But Mokey had a gift for mess.
She’d fake a yawn, then pitch a fit,
And land a hoof where I sit.

She kept one eye locked on my shin,
A dairy cow with a devilish grin.
She’d tip the pail just for the thrill,
And test my faith and balance skill.

That old coral held a quiet kind of spell,
The sort no city soul could tell.
Their breath like fog in morning light,
Their warmth against the edge of night.

I’d talk to them of school and dreams,
Of basketball and cowboy schemes.
And though they chewed like they were bored,
I swear those cows just stored my words.

No ribbons hung, no grand parade—
Just honest milk, and lessons made.
Mahana taught me calm and grace,
Mokey? How to dodge in place.

And years have passed since those days flew,
But every single word of this is true:
Those cows helped raise me, hoof, and hide—
With patient love… and a wild ride.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Choosing the Right Pet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Chickens

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: The Castration of Smokestack Jack

Now I’ve stitched up bulls and I’ve birthed stuck sheep,
I’ve wrestled a mean llama that wouldn’t fall asleep.
But the tale that I tell—of blood, sweat, and fate—
Begins with a horse…and ends south of his gait.

The gelding was named old Smokestack Jack,
A 1200-pound bomb with hooves and a back
Like a freight train fused to a lightning bolt—
He’d never been cut, but he sure had his jolt.

I showed up calm with my tools in hand—
A syringe full of dreams and a castration plan.
The owners stood by with hope and a prayer,
While Jack gave a snort that said, “Don’t you dare.”

First came the syringe with a little xylazine,
To chill his spirit and dull the sheen.
Then butorphanol, a dose refined—
To fog up the sharpness of that equine mind.

Then in came ketamine—quick and true,
The drug of choice when the sky ain’t blue.
But mercy, it’s just a roll of the dice—
Will he lie down sweet… or take out a slice?

You try to steer him, soft as a song,
But twelve hundred pounds won’t sway for long.
He wobbled and leaned, then dropped like a brick—
I dove for his head so he wouldn’t get nicked.

And there he laid, in all his pride,
With two bold apples on either side.
I found my emasculators, strong and clean,
And muttered my mantra: “Nut to nut—know what I mean.”

You clamp that tool, and you hold your breath,
While the seconds crawl on like the angel of death.
One minute… two… you’re counting slow—
Then snip-snap gone, like a late-night show.

Blood’s expected, but not too much—
Just a cowboy ballet with a surgical touch.
I stepped back proud, like I’d wrangled the moon,
But the rodeo started awful soon.

’Cause when they wake up, they don’t send a card—
They just jerk and launch like a rocket straight upward.
Jack shot up like the Fourth of July,
Kicked dust in my teeth and stars in my eye.

The owners were gasping, their dog dashed off,
While I stood there wheezing, tryin’ not to cough.
But old Jack was fine—just lighter behind—
A new way of walking and gentler in mind.

So, here’s to the cutters, the vet, and the crew,
Who ride that fine line ’tween guts and glue.
It ain’t for the faint, or the posh, or the neat—
It’s a dance with danger…but stay your feet.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The Everyday Joy

There is a quiet kind of joy that settles into your soul when you are doing the work you were meant to do.

Most mornings, before the sun rises over the Utah mountains, I’m already slipping on my cowboy boots—mud-stained and worn, molded now to the shape of a life spent in motion. I grab my stethoscope, my bag, my keys, and head out into a world brimming with fur, feathers, hooves, and hope.

Veterinary medicine isn’t just what I do. It’s who I am.

Some days begin in the back of a barn, where the cold air bites and a newborn calf draws its first breath under my hands. Other days start in the exam room, where a child clutches a beloved Labrador, eyes wide with worry. And in between—between the emergencies and the quiet check-ups, between the farm calls and the clinic rush—I get to witness the everyday miracles that make this life so rich.

I’ve delivered llamas in driving snow, sutured deep wounds beneath the unforgiving glare of headlights, and knelt beside a tearful family saying goodbye to a friend they’d had for 15 years. I’ve stood in pastures under the stars, my breath rising like smoke, listening to the steady beat of a healthy heart after a long night of doubt.

There is a profound kind of grace in these moments. They aren’t flashy. They don’t get applause. But they matter. They always matter.

Even in the hardest moments—the ones that steal your breath and sting your eyes—there is joy. Because to be there, truly present, for the full arc of an animal’s life… to be trusted with beginnings and endings and everything in between… that is a privilege I will never take lightly.

Joy lives in the eyes of a child hugging a freshly-healed puppy. It lives in the subtle wag of a tail, in the quiet gratitude of a farmer who doesn’t say much, but whose handshake says everything. It lives in the precise moment a life is saved—and in the reverent silence when one is gently, lovingly let go.

There is a sacred rhythm in veterinary life: the hum of an early morning truck engine, the shuffle of boots on a clinic floor, the steady pulse of a heart monitor, the rustle of straw beneath an anxious animal. I have come to see these not as mundane details, but as music. This is my symphony, and every day brings a new stanza.

Yes, it is hard. Yes, there are heartbreaks. But even in those moments, joy finds a way in—because to walk with people through love and loss is a privilege. To be trusted with the care of what they treasure most is an honor.

This work is never routine. It is real, raw, and sometimes relentlessly exhausting. But every syringe I fill, every suture I place, every hand I hold—weaves another thread into a tapestry of purpose. I didn’t choose this profession for the paycheck or prestige. I chose it because it gives me meaning. And meaning, I’ve learned, is the soil where true joy grows.

This work is rarely easy. It asks everything of you—your time, your energy, your heart. And yet, somehow, it gives more than it takes. It has given me purpose. It has given me perspective. And perhaps most importantly, it has given me stories—each one stitched into the fabric of who I am.

Thank you to the animals who have trusted me, the people who have invited me into their lives during their most vulnerable hours, the dusty roads, the late nights, the long drives, and the moments of stillness in between.

I have loved my work. Deeply. Completely.

And it has loved me right back—in the most beautiful, unexpected ways.

And that is my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza: The Oath I Carry

I don’t hang my hat where the marble floors shine,
But where feeders creak and the work smells like pine.
Where calves are born in the glow of dawn,
And the weak hold on until strength draws on.

The clinic is clean, the instruments aligned,
But the soul of this job ain’t sterilized shine.
It’s in fence-line talks and horse trailer dust,
In prayers whispered quiet when the case’s a bust.

I’ve hauled myself through blizzards and heat,
Boots caked in the mire and manure on my seat.
I’ve fought for lives deep into the night,
Through shadowed stalls and flickering light.

There’s a silence that speaks in the lamb’s first cry,
In the mother who stands, though she looked sure to die.
There’s courage in small things—stitches and scans,
And in wiping your brow with manure-cracked hands.

The world doesn’t see what a vet becomes—
Not just tendons and tubes and dental drums—
But the keeper of trust, of loss and grace,
Of the life in a heartbeat, the look on a face.

They think it’s just science—drugs, charts, and steel,
But there’s faith in this work that no book can reveal.
Like standing tall when hope runs thin,
Then crying alone as the grief sinks in.

I pledged my heart in muck and fleece,
To guard the wild, the worn, the peace.
And ever since that oath was sworn aloud,
It’s carved in me deep — humble and proud.

I answer when the call comes through,
Even if it’s late and the sky’s lost its blue.
This life ain’t perfect, but it fits me true—
Where the oath I carry is all that I do.

DocBott