My Take Tuesday: Where Memory Still Lives

(In Loving Memory of Hugh and Shonna Peterson)

It was a still summer evening—the kind that gently wraps around your shoulders like a well-worn quilt. The sun, slow and sure, crept behind the mountains west of Emery, Utah, casting its final light across the sky in a hush of gratitude. Crimson melted into orange, orange into violet, and the heavens blushed with color as if remembering something beautiful.

I stood barefoot on the lawn outside the old adobe brick house—my grandparents’ house—on the corner of 200 North and Center Street. The cottonwoods towered above me, their leaves whispering secrets I’ve known since childhood. Their scent—rich, earthy, and sweet—mingled with the breeze, alive with memory.

To the south, the garden still grows in my mind’s eye: corn, cucumbers, zucchini, peas, and potatoes, with bright marigolds planted just so. It wasn’t just a patch of cultivated earth. It was a canvas of care, painted by my grandparents’ hands with quiet diligence and deep affection. The air smelled of soil and cut grass, of salt grass and blue clay, tinged with the trace of baking bread, lilacs by the back fence, and coffee on the stove. These were the smells of Emery. The smells of home.

Just north of town, where Muddy Creek winds its quiet way, lies a hidden oasis—a sacred corner of the earth where my grandfather, Hugh Peterson, once worked the land. That soil knew his boots. That breeze carried his voice. And though he and Grandma Shonna are gone now, I still feel them there—in the hush of the cottonwoods, in the warmth of the bricks, in the very soul of that home.

A single photo—humble and still—can hold so much more than it shows. A stretch of lawn. A front porch. A weathered birdbath and a ceramic swan. But if you look closer, you can see birthday parties and Sunday dinners, afternoon naps, and children catching grasshoppers in the garden. Every element tells a quiet story of love, care, and homegrown charm.

But the true magic began once you stepped inside.

The green shag carpet clung faithfully to the stairs, each tread worn smooth by decades of footfalls—bare feet in summer, stocking feet in winter, little feet bounding upward in search of cousins and comfort. The walls, painted and paneled, held the warmth of years gone by. In the kitchen, a calendar held notes written in my grandmother’s steady hand, her script as familiar to me as the sound of her voice. Every family member’s birthday and anniversary were handwritten. 

Upstairs, the bedrooms waited in gentle stillness. A bed made with floral sheets and hand-stitched quilts. A cedar chest stacked with books and records. Pictures lined the walls of the bedrooms and staircase. The scent of linen and wood and time. It was a room filled with softness, where silence felt like comfort and love rested in every fold of the blanket.

And then there was the living room – drenched in golden sunlight, filtered through lace curtains that swayed with even the slightest breeze. The rust-orange carpet was bold and unapologetic, layered with the footsteps and laughter of decades. The furniture—perfectly mismatched—held stories of its own. The leopard-print armrests on grandma’s chair, handmade afghans, a sunflower pillow, a golden rocking chair with sunken cushions. A wooden clock ticked gently on the wall. The television, rarely watched, sat below framed portraits, porcelain figurines, and plaques bearing quiet declarations of faith. It wasn’t décor. It was devotion.

This house, this corner of Emery, was my Eden.

It was not fancy, but it was full—of sacrifice and sweetness, of sweet rolls and Saturday chores, of country music on a dusty AM radio, of Grandpa’s humor and wisdom and Grandma’s radiant kindness. The house had a heartbeat. You could feel it in the hush of the morning, in the creak of a step, in the hum of the Stokermatic furnace, and in the warmth of the people who made it home.

Even now, years later, if I feel worn down or a little lost, I return here—not in person, more often in memory. I climb those stairs in my mind. I walk barefoot across the rug. I stand again in the living room’s golden light, and for a moment, I am whole.

This home taught me how to love. How to slow down. How to belong.

If you ever need to remember what really matters, take a quiet drive through Emery, Utah. Stop at the corner of 200 North and Center Street. Stand beneath the cottonwoods. Let the wind carry their voices. Step onto the porch. Listen closely.

You’ll know what I mean.

Because love never leaves the place it made its home.

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

Sunday Stanza: Where Art Meets the Land

Just south of Salt Lake, a stone’s gentle throw,
Past orchards and valleys where spring breezes blow,
Nestled up tight ‘neath the Wasatch’s rise,
Sits a town brushed with color and framed by blue skies.

They call it “Art City”—a fitting old name,
Where murals and galleries shimmer with fame.
But art here’s not trapped behind velvet and glass—
It’s felt in the sunsets and smelled in the grass.

The foothills lean near like an old friend’s embrace.
Trails like Hobblecreek Canyon will quicken your pace.
Climb up its ridges where bold eagles fly,
And taste heaven’s hush ‘neath a high-alpine sky.

Fifth Water awaits with a sulfur-kissed breeze,
Where warm pools steam softly among mossy trees.
Through Diamond Fork Canyon the turquoise streams glide,
With waterfalls spilling where still dreams reside.

Just west lies Utah Lake’s shimmering span—
A fisherman’s morning, a sunbather’s tan.
Take out a kayak and paddle the bay,
Or just let the breeze steal your burdens away.

The museum holds stories from far and from near,
Native Americans, cowboys, and visions sincere.
Utah’s own brushstrokes hang proud on the wall—
A mirror of people, both the humble and tall.

When twilight creeps in with its lavender hue,
And headlights dance soft on the roads winding through,
You’ll smell something savory, hear laughter and song—
At Strap Tank they’re pouring, and you might stay too long.

Main Street meanders like pages well worn,
With galleries, diners, and boots slightly torn.
If on a Wednesday you’re down this way,
Don’t miss Magleby’s all-you-can-eat buffet.

La Casita—over forty years on Main has stood,
Built on beans, tacos, and brotherhood.
With calloused hands and a dear friend’s grace,
The Muzquiz name still warms the place.

So, if you’re just passing or seeking to roam,
There’s more than a postcard to take back home.
For here, in this valley where art meets the land,
Is a place built by heart, by soul, and by hand.

DocBott

The Sixth of June

Of all the days I hold most dear,
One rises bright and warm and clear.
No spring bloom, nor harvest moon—
Can touch the light of the sixth of June.

For that’s the day the world first knew
The spark of light God placed in you.
With tiny hands and fragile frame,
You came to us—and life became.

That morning, joy and fear entwined—
Your heartbeat small, your soul divine.
Wires and tape, a NICU bed,
Yet still you shone. Still tears were shed.

I held you close—your breath, your skin—
And felt a fire start within.
A father’s love, both fierce and new,
A vow unspoken: I’ll fight for you.

Each night I sang a cowboy tune,
A lullaby beneath the moon.
“Daily Bread” became our song,
Of love that lasts your whole life long.

And now you rise—so strong, so bright—
A daughter, sister, beacon light.
You face the world with open hands,
A heart that loves, a soul that stands.

You’ve weathered storms, and still you smile,
With faith that stretches every mile.
You lift, you serve, you give your best—
Now, you’ve left the nest, but not my chest.

So go, dear Kaycee, shine and roam,
And make the hearts of strangers home.
I’ll cheer you on, though skies may gray—
My thoughts will follow you every day.

For twenty years I’ve watched you grow,
From NICU lights to sunsets’ glow.
The years have flown, but still I swoon—
For I love, most of all, the sixth of June.

DocBott

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’s my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

🐴Introducing: Sunday Stanza 🌾

By DocBott

Every Sunday, I’ll be posting a short poem—a “Sunday Stanza”—straight from the clinic, the backcountry, or the belly of a bovine.

Some will be funny, some will be thoughtful, and a few might just smell faintly of iodine and alfalfa.

It’s poetry with manure on its boots and a heart full of haydust. One stanza at a time. Every Sunday.

Because sometimes, a good poem can patch a tough week better than duct tape and vet wrap.

Here is the inaugural edition. 

Don’t Worry, Doc—He Won’t Bite

 

“Don’t worry, Doc—he won’t bite,” she lied,

While the dog gave a side-glance, wild and wide.

His lip gave a quiver, his ears pulled tight—

If trust was a gamble, I lost that fight.

 

We were just doin’ shots—routine and quick,

No drama, no fuss, no parvo to lick.

But as I reached down, calm and polite,

The beast transformed in a blaze of spite.

 

He launched like a rocket from a couch-cushion den,

A fury of fangs in a six-pound of flesh eating skin.

His jaws clamped tight on my innocent hand,

And I learned immediately where liars stand.

 

“IATROGENIC,” the textbooks state—

A fancy word for “you sealed your own fate.”

‘Cause I gave the shot, I caused the pain,

So the mutt took my flesh like a runaway train.

 

Blood gushed forth as I gasped in surprise,

Staring down at my fingers with widening eyes.

She sipped on her soda and gave a small blink—

“Guess he did bite the last one… now that I think.”

 

Well, ma’am, that would’ve been nice to know

Before Cujo decided to go full Rambo.

But I smiled through the crimson and held back my spite,

Nodding like, “Sure… he’s not going to bite.”

 

So here’s a heads-up from a vet who knows—

When a client insists, “He’s fine”—compose.

Your farewell speech to your unchewed digits,

’Cause odds are good you’re about to need stitches.

#SundayStanza #DocBottWrites #PoetryFromThePrairie #VetLifeVerses

My Take Tuesday: Castle Dale, My Cure

I was born where the blue clay hills rise slow,
Where sagebrush whispers and alfalfa fields grow.
No stoplights blink on our silent streets,
But the town’s heartbeat is where kinfolk meet.

Castle Dale, carved in dust and grace,
A blip on the map—but my holy place.
The San Rafael to the east lies wide,
Horn and East Mountains flank the other side.

Cows in the pastures, old windmills spin,
Where a boy earns his worth from the sweat of his skin.
We hauled hay ‘til our hands turned raw,
Learned to drive stick before we could draw.

The air smells of leather, manure, and rain,
Of branding smoke and sheared fleece stain.
And though the winters bit and summers blazed,
The simple joys lit up our days—
Like a rope well-thrown, a calf born sound,
Or a truck that finally turned around.

It’s where fence posts lean but still hold tight,
And neighbors wave in broad daylight.
Dreams sprout like corn in a warm spring row,
Fed by grit and a cowboy’s know-how.

Chores came first, then school if you must,
And secrets blew ’round like Emery County dust.
Everybody knows who lost a calf,
Who got bucked off, and who needs a laugh.

It’s the place that built these calloused hands,
Taught me to heal what the Lord understands.
Where I stitched my first cut on a neighbor’s stray,
And figured out this was my way.
I was hooked, no question, plain to see—
A doc for the critters, wild and free.

Now I chase the blacktop, barn to pen,
Through sleet and sorrow, back again.
Some days you lose more than you win—
But you saddle back up and dig right in.

And when the weight piles high and thick,
When I’m plum wore out and the clock won’t tick,
I head back home, where the sky turns gold,
To a stretch of road my soul still holds.

Down Bott Lane’s path, straight and wide,
Where poplars lean with family pride.
Planted by hands now long at rest,
Still standing tall at their old request.

For Castle Dale’s more than just some tiny town—
It’s the grit in my spine when life breaks down.
It’s the forge, the fire, the chapel, the cure,
It’s why I stand tall, and why I endure.

So when the world gets loud and the fight gets mean,
I go back where the sage grows clean.
So when you ask what keeps me whole—
It’s the soil, the stock, and that sky’s wide soul.

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

My Take Tuesday: The Cooper of Castle Valley

Some people leave behind great monuments—statues, buildings, legacies etched in stone. My great-great-grandfather, Boye Petersen, left behind a barrel. And a yoke. And a Bible with a handwritten prayer tucked inside. No marble. No bronze. Just wood, faith, and a life lived with quiet purpose.

Boye was born in Ribe County, Denmark in 1841. A master cooper by trade, he made barrels with skill and precision. But barrel-making was just the beginning. In 1872, with his wife, Mette Kjerstine, and their four young children, he boarded the S.S. Nevada and set sail for America—a land of promise, hardship, and deep conviction. They left comfort behind for faith, choosing Zion over familiarity.

The family first settled in Fountain Green, Utah, where more children were born, including my great grandmother. But their journey wasn’t finished. On August 27, 1879, they packed their belongings once again—this time at the urging of church leadership—and traveled across rugged terrain to the sparse, wind-swept plains of Castle Valley in Emery County. They arrived in Castle Dale on August 31.

There, Boye built a modest two-room log cabin. He would live out the rest of his life within those simple walls. After his death, his daughter Rebecca raised fourteen children in that same cabin.

The land was not generous. Even today, Castle Dale’s soil struggles to yield much. But Boye never complained. He worked those 40 acres as though he’d been entrusted with the Garden of Eden. This piece of land remains in the family until this day. 

He knew grief all too well. Of his twelve children, eight died young. Yet those who knew him spoke not of bitterness, but of his strength, reverence, and unwavering work ethic. He served as a traveling church judge, riding from town to town to help settle serious matters. He worked frequently in the Manti Temple, making the long journey by horse and buggy over the mountains in just six or seven hours. When people marveled at his speed, he’d smile and say, “Why drive oxen when you have horses?”

Each week, he carried water from the ditch—ten gallons at a time—using a wooden yoke he had built to fit across his shoulders, buckets swinging from ropes on either side. Today, that yoke sits in the Castle Dale Museum. More than a relic, it stands as a quiet emblem of the life he lived: steady, balanced, intentional.

Boye was a craftsman in every sense. He built rocking chairs, workbenches, and furniture that still grace family homes to this day. He never used metal—only wood, expertly joined with wooden screws and pins. He kept his workshop spotless. My great-grandfather would tell stories of how Boye could walk into that shop on the darkest night and, by touch alone, find any tool he needed.

And then there was his Bible. Worn and richly illustrated, it featured side-by-side translations of the New Testament—1611 and 1881 editions. My grandfather recalled sitting beside his father, turning its pages, listening to stories drawn from its depths.

Tucked within that Bible is a handwritten prayer. Boye wrote:

“I, Boye P. Petersen, most humbly pray thee, O Lord, to give me grace to always adhere to the truth and have my mind quickened by the Holy Ghost so that I might always be able to decide between Truth and Error, and to have Courage to Defend the Principles of the Gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

That prayer still humbles me.

Boye passed away in December 1912—nearly seventy years before I was born. And yet, through his workmanship, his quiet devotion, and the stories that have shaped my family for generations, I feel as though I’ve come to know him. In truth, he never really left.

Some men build empires. My great-great-grandfather built barrels—strong, watertight, and true. Much like the life he lived: humble in form, enduring in purpose.

And That is My Take. 

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Tempus Fugit

This week marks sixteen years since I graduated from veterinary school. Sixteen years. And still, it feels both like a lifetime ago and like it happened just yesterday.

I remember standing shoulder-to-shoulder with some of the most brilliant, compassionate, and driven individuals I’ve ever known. We were full of hope, determination—and caffeine—ready to take on the world with our hearts in our hands and stethoscopes around our necks.

Today, those classmates are scattered across the globe, leaving indelible marks on veterinary medicine—as oncologists, internal medicine specialists, zoo vets, epidemiologists, clinical pathologists, mixed animal practice owners, and tireless advocates for animal and public health. Their impact is extraordinary. I feel a quiet pride in having walked beside them during those formative years.

As for me—I could never have predicted the journey these sixteen years would bring.

I’ve had the rare privilege of consulting in eight countries and twenty-seven U.S. states. I’ve worked with thirty-nine different species in reproduction alone, completed over 50,000 small animal exams, published scientific papers, and recently authored my first textbook chapter. I’ve helped build a thriving practice. And along the way, I’ve been challenged, humbled, mentored, and inspired.

Yet above all these milestones, it’s the quiet, ordinary moments that have brought the most joy. The wag of a tail after a hard-won recovery. The warm look of relief on a client’s face. The first breath of a newborn calf in the early dawn. These are the miracles disguised as routine. And if there’s one lesson that rises above the rest, it’s this: the secret isn’t chasing the extraordinary—but finding it in the everyday. 

This profession has demanded much—but it has given more. It has taught me how to listen, how to persevere, how to hold both life and death in the same gentle hands. It has filled my days with purpose and meaning. The path hasn’t always been smooth, but it has always been sacred.

One of my greatest joys has been mentoring and speaking with veterinary students across the country. I often tell them: lean into what makes you different. Don’t look outward for validation—look inward for authenticity. Success isn’t measured by being better than others; it’s measured by becoming better than who you were yesterday.

Just glance at your thumb. That spiral of ridges—your fingerprint—is a singular marvel, unmatched in all of human history. A quiet reminder that no one else can offer the world what you can. Your perspective, your voice, your courage, your way of caring—these are your tools. Learn to use them with intention, and you’ll never lack direction.

To my mentors and colleagues—thank you for shaping me. To the clients and animals who trust me—thank you for teaching me. The work is often hard, but the joy runs deep. I still love what I do. I’m living my passion, and I step into each new day with gratitude and wonder.

Tempus fugit—time flies. But what a remarkable flight it’s been.

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

My Take Tuesday: The Gift of a Mother

Some people are kind for appearances. Some are kind when it’s easy. Some are kind in exchange for praise. But my mother, Colleen Bott, is kind because it’s etched into her soul.

Her kindness is quiet and constant. It doesn’t seek recognition or applause. It simply is—moving through the world with quiet dignity, changing lives with a gentle touch, a thoughtful word, or a warm meal delivered before you even knew you were in need. Her kindness is not something she chooses each day; it is as natural to her as breathing.

Leap year holds a special kind of magic in our family. My mom was born on February 29, 1956, and every four years we mark the occasion with extra zest—making up for the birthdays that hide between calendar pages. And in the in-between years—like this one—we celebrate her on February 28th, never letting the absence of a date diminish the depth of our love and gratitude.

Of all the gifts a mother can give, none is more enduring than the gift of time. And my mother gave us that—freely, unconditionally, and with a heart full of love.

I remember one summer when she built us a clubhouse—not from wood or nails, but from a foldable card table and a piece of fabric. To an outsider, it might have seemed simple. But to us, it was a kingdom. With a mesh window and a perfectly hemmed doorway, it became the headquarters of the Circle-Four Clubhouse—a sanctuary of imagination filled with toy cars, He-Man figures, Legos, and Muscle Men. It was love, made visible through her creativity and care.

When I dreamed of climbing the tallest mountain, she packed my lunch. When I was sick, she stayed beside me. When I lost my way, she lit the path ahead—not with force or fanfare, but with her quiet, unwavering presence.

Her love does not boast. It does not demand. It does not tire.

It simply remains—ever-present, ever-true.

She never raised her voice to shape my destiny, nor pushed me toward grand ambition. Instead, she simply loved me—deeply, fiercely, and without condition. And in the safety of that love, I found the courage to chase dreams I hadn’t yet dared to claim.

Her presence doesn’t fill a room; it fills a heart. She’s the kind of woman who remembers your favorite dessert, notices when your eyes are heavy, and listens—even when your words falter. She gives everything, expects nothing, and somehow, still offers more.

How fortunate we are to have been raised by her. There is nothing she would not do for someone she loves. Her smile, when turned toward you, has the power to brighten even the darkest day. And when she says, “I love you, Isaac,” it reaches into the deepest part of me and reminds me that I am never alone.

One of the most formative lessons she ever taught me came not through reprimand, but through grace. As a boy, I once made a terrible mess with salt dough —spreading the mixture far beyond the cutting board and deep into the carpet. I panicked. “She’ll be so upset,” I thought. But when my mom walked into the room, she simply smiled and said, “Wow! When you play with salt dough, you really go all out!” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.” She knelt beside me and gently said, “Isaac, I will never get mad at you for making a mess. I’ll only be upset if you don’t clean it up.”

In that moment, I understood that I didn’t have to earn her love. It was already mine. Unconditional. Unshakable. It became the emotional foundation upon which I have built my life.

Over the years, I’ve made many messes—navigating life the best I could. And each time I stumbled, her love remained. She reminded me that messes can be cleaned up, and that she would always be there—steady, smiling, and full of grace.

She has been with me through every season—my valleys and my summits, my fears and my triumphs. Her wisdom, her faith, her patience—they are woven into every good part of me.

She lives what she believes. She practices what she preaches. Her life is the lesson. Her love, the message.

The writer of Proverbs 31 describes a woman of noble character, saying, “Her children rise up and call her blessed.” As her son, I gently say: she is my hero.

Mom, you are grace in motion.

You are strength wrapped in gentleness.

You are love—unconditional, unwavering, and unforgettable.

Thank you for every whispered prayer, every quiet sacrifice, and every moment you made me feel like the most important person in the world.

I love you with every part of me.

And that is My Take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Snowball

It was a brisk morning at the clinic, the kind where steam rises from coffee cups and everything feels just a little too hurried. Appointments were stacked back-to-back, and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since the doors opened.

Right on the dot, Mrs. Robins arrived.

She was one of our long-standing clients, the sort who never missed an appointment and always brought a quiet warmth with her. Her silver-white hair—immaculately set—seemed to mirror the gentleness in her voice. In her arms, she carried a pink pet carrier with a small white face peering through the bars.

“This is Snowball,” she said, smiling as if she were introducing royalty. “She’s just the sweetest thing. An angel at home.”

Now, in veterinary work, there are phrases you learn to greet with quiet skepticism. “She’s never done that before” is one. “He just wants to say hi” is another. And “She’s an angel at home”—well, that one in particular often precedes a bit of drama.

I crouched to peer into the carrier. Snowball stared back at me with unblinking yellow eyes. Her ears flattened slightly. Her body was coiled into that unmistakable feline crouch—legs tucked, muscles taut, tail wrapped tightly as if restraining her own temper.

“She doesn’t seem terribly happy today,” I said.

“Oh, nonsense,” Mrs. Robins replied cheerfully, flipping open the carrier door. “She’ll come right out.”

And come out she did—like a bullet from a gun.

There was no time to react. One moment she was in the carrier, and the next she was airborne, a blur of white fur and furious motion. She landed squarely on Mrs. Robins’ head. All four claws engaged like grappling hooks into her scalp. In the blink of an eye, Snowball fell from her perch, still clinging tightly to what turned out to be Mrs. Robbin’s white wig.

It would’ve been funny if it hadn’t been so alarming. Her claws dug in like tiny ice picks, and Mrs. Robins, remarkably composed, simply reached down, detached the struggling cat, and replaced her hairpiece with a gentle pat.

“She’s sure mad at you!” she said, without a trace of irritation.

Before I could respond, Snowball turned her fiery gaze on me. There was a pause—brief, tense, and oddly theatrical. Then she launched again.

She hit me mid-thigh, clambering up the front of my trousers like a mountaineer ascending Everest. I winced as her claws found purchase. By the time she reached my shoulder, she had settled in like a bird of prey.

And just like that, it was over.

No hissing. No growling. Just silence.

She perched calmly on my shoulder, perfectly still, as if nothing had happened. Her tail curled neatly around my neck.

I moved slowly—very slowly—and reached for the rabies vaccine. One false move and I’d have a new earring. But Snowball didn’t so much as blink. She allowed the injection with saintly poise, not a twitch or twitch of protest. I finished the rest of her exam as she sat quietly, purring under my stethoscope.

When it was all done, she stepped lightly back into the carrier on her own.

I stood there for a moment, stunned. This cat, who had just conducted a full-scale assault on two humans and one wig, was now as docile as a lamb.

There are bursts of animal behavior we still don’t fully understand—moments of sudden intensity, like a summer storm that appears without warning and vanishes just as quickly.

Mrs. Robins smiled as she lifted the carrier. “She must’ve just had a little rage to get out of her system,” she said. “She really is the sweetest thing.”

I nodded, still watching Snowball, who looked back at me with wide, innocent eyes—as though none of it had ever happened.

Then I felt it: a sting in my leg. I looked down to find a small trickle of blood inching down my shin.

Mrs. Robins walked out into the morning, her white hair once again perfectly in place. Snowball, for all appearances, was a model of serenity.

Snowball can sure keep you guessing. But Mrs. Robins? That woman is unshakeable.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM