My Take Tuesday: The Llama Que Se Llama Lloyd


It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, and I had just settled onto the couch, ready to enjoy the best part of one of my favorite movies. The peace was short-lived. My phone rang, jolting me from the comfort of cinematic escapism.

“Hello, this is Dr. Bott,” I answered, slipping into my professional tone.

“Hey Doc! I need you to come check on my llama. He’s gone absolutely berserk!”

There was panic in her voice. “He just ate my blouse off the clothesline. Yesterday, he spit right in my eye. He keeps biting Susie and Dolly—those are my other llamas—and he’s been attacking anyone who dares step into his pen!”

If I’ve learned one thing in veterinary medicine, it’s that calls involving llamas often come with a unique flavor of urgency. Perhaps it’s the temperament of the animals, or perhaps it’s the humans who choose them—but either way, the stories tend to be unforgettable.

“And I even tried calming him with lavender oil!” she added, “but he bit my finger!”

“Oh my,” I replied, masking the mix of concern and curiosity already brewing in my mind.

The term berserk has been applied rather liberally over the years to llamas or alpacas that behave outside the norm. But from her description, I sensed this wasn’t just a dramatic overstatement—this was a legitimate call for help.

“Is your llama male?” I asked, shifting gears to triage.

“Ya’ darn tootin’ he is.”

“Is he castrated?”

“No, we ain’t got around to it yet.”

Aha. In my experience, few things will settle down a wild-eyed macho llama like timely castration—especially if performed before puberty. Intact males, particularly those imprinted on humans, can become dangerously aggressive. This condition is often referred to as berserk male syndrome—a misdirected dominance behavior rooted in confusion about whether their handlers are rivals… or fellow llamas.

As I headed south on I-15, I reviewed the condition in my head. True berserk male syndrome is rare but serious. It often arises when young male llamas are bottle-fed or raised without appropriate interaction with their own species. They grow up believing humans are part of their herd.

As I turned down the gravel road leading to the client’s farm, I saw him.

Lloyd.

A tall, fiber-covered llama with a fierce expression and a gait that seemed to challenge the earth beneath him. His screeching alarm call—a high-pitched shrill overlaid with a guttural rumble—echoed through the stillness. He bolted along the fence line, wild-eyed and furious.

Lloyd had the long banana-shaped ears of a llama, but with his thick facial fiber, he could’ve passed for an alpaca in disguise. As I stepped out of the truck to greet Mrs. Jones, I was promptly baptized with a full-face projectile of regurgitated cud.

Veterinary medicine keeps you humble.

Between coughs and wipes, I explained our plan: “We need to sedate Lloyd. I’d like to examine his teeth, and—as you’ve requested—castrate him while he’s under.”

Mrs. Jones didn’t hesitate. “Maybe he’ll calm down if we chop his balls off!”

No matter how many years I’ve been doing this, that line always makes me chuckle—especially coming from a straight-faced rancher.

Administering the tranquilizer took some teamwork—and endurance. We were both doused in more spit and absorbed a few solid kicks before the sedative finally took hold. Lloyd laid down and drifted off to sleep.

Upon examining his mouth, I found the culprit: his fighting teeth—sharp premolars used for dominance displays—had grown into the soft tissue of his cheek. Every chew, every bite, had been laced with pain.

With the offending teeth safely removed and the castration complete, Lloyd awoke a new man—or rather, a calmer camelid.

He walked gently beside Mrs. Jones as she led him back to the pen. She beamed as Lloyd nuzzled her cheek for the first time in weeks.

“That’s my boy,” she whispered, wiping a tear with her free hand.

It wasn’t berserk male syndrome. It wasn’t bad behavior. It was pain—pure and simple.

If only animals could tell us where it hurts. But they can’t, not in words. Instead, they rely on behaviors, however bizarre or “berserk,” to speak for them. And it’s our job—whether as veterinarians, caretakers, or pet owners—to listen.

Lloyd reminded me of that.

And that is my take.


N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Cowboy

He is as tough as steel.

From 1970 to 1973, he was stationed in East Germany, tasked with slipping across the border into West Germany to capture reconnaissance photographs. The danger was ever-present. On one mission, his vehicle was narrowly missed by active gunfire. He lived every day under threat—but never flinched.

After his military service, he went on to serve 29 distinguished years with the Utah Highway Patrol. He became the head of the Utah County service office and was later appointed lieutenant commander of the Mounted Patrol during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He also served as bodyguard to Utah governors Norman Bangerter and Scott Matheson. His storied career is the kind of life most people only read about—an extraordinary journey carved from courage, loyalty, and grit.

As a child, I was enamored with He-Man action figures. My favorite was Man-At-Arms—the armored commander of the royal guard, fiercely loyal to He-Man himself. He had sharp brown eyes and a mustache, and in my young mind, he embodied strength, leadership, and unwavering dedication.

The first time I met Ken Peay, I felt like I was meeting Man-At-Arms in real life. He was everything that childhood hero stood for—loyal, strong, hardworking, and steadfast. A doting father. A quiet, tireless cowboy. A man of principle.

Somehow, this giant of a man became my friend.

Ken has volunteered hundreds of hours helping care for the reindeer herd at Mountain West Animal Hospital. He is the only person I trust implicitly with those animals. His calm demeanor and observant eye bring peace to even the most nervous reindeer.

Twice, I needed help transporting reindeer from western Oregon to Utah. Both times, Ken dropped everything. He drove his own truck, pulled a gooseneck trailer, and made the 900-mile trek to Eugene and back. He never hesitated. He just quietly showed up and did what needed to be done.

I could write dozens of stories like this—examples of selflessness, loyalty, and kindness. Ken is one of the finest men I have ever known. He is the best of the best, and I love him dearly.

Years ago, Governor Matheson succumbed to a vicious cancer called multiple myeloma—a relentless disease that attacks the bone marrow and immune system. In late 2023, Ken was diagnosed with the same cruel affliction.

But true to form, he faced it head-on. With the grit of a cowboy, he pulled on his boots, tipped his hat low, and endured months of brutal treatment. He weathered the side effects with stoicism and strength. And when it came time for a stem cell transplant, he bore the burden with quiet courage. Day by day, hour by hour, he began to heal. Slowly, he started to regain his strength.

Ken’s fight has taught me something: that toughness is not the absence of pain—it’s the refusal to surrender to it.

We all face storms. Sometimes they roll in quietly. Other times they hit like a freight train. They come in the form of illness, loss, relationship strain, or overwhelming change. For many, these storms feel like too much. The temptation to give up is real.

But I’ve learned from Ken—and from nature itself—that there’s another way.

A few winters ago, I passed a herd of bison standing in an open meadow during a fierce snowstorm. The wind howled. Snow fell in heavy sheets. And yet the bison did not run. They did not turn away. They faced the storm head-on.

In conditions that would kill entire herds of cattle, the bison stood firm, staring into the wind with a kind of calm defiance. There was wisdom in their stance—an ancient understanding that storms cannot be outrun, only endured.

Perhaps that’s the lesson: when life sends its blizzards, don’t turn your back. Stand your ground. Let the wind hit your face and the snow sting your skin. Be brave enough to feel the cold, and strong enough to keep going.

We don’t know how long the storm will last. But I believe we all weather it better when we face it together—with courage, determination, and a little borrowed strength from those who inspire us.

Ken, thank you for teaching me what it means to stand tall in the storm. You are a true cowboy—resilient, loyal, and strong.

I’m grateful for the good days ahead. And I’m grateful for the lessons you’ve etched on my heart.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Courage to Change Course

In late September of 2011, Typhoon Pedring struck the Philippines with unrelenting force. Torrential rain inundated streets, while sustained winds of over 120 miles per hour leveled anything in their path. The storm would leave a lasting mark—not only on the country, but on my understanding of risk, instinct, and the wisdom of changing direction.

That morning, I was working in a small laboratory, meticulously freezing water buffalo semen—a delicate, hours-long process. As the storm approached, I chose to finish the task, calculating that I could complete it just before the worst of the typhoon arrived. It was a decision made in haste—and one I would soon regret.

When I finally stepped outside, floodwaters were already racing through the streets. I flagged down a motorcycle taxi, a common vehicle in the Philippines with a motorcycle front and a narrow sidecar in the back. At 6’2”, I barely fit. My knees were tucked against my chest, the cab barely ten inches off the ground. It was an uncomfortable squeeze on a good day—this was not a good day.

As we began moving, water surged higher. The engine sputtered and strained, and before long, the vehicle lost contact with the road. We were floating—adrift in fast-moving floodwaters, completely at the mercy of the current. The driver panicked. I was helpless.

Moments later, the taxi slammed into a concrete railing on a large bridge, stopping just short of a deadly drop. Miraculously, the driver regained control and steered us to safety. I arrived at the hotel drenched, shaken, and profoundly grateful. The storm continued to pour, delivering more than 24 inches of rain in a single day.

A few days later, I boarded a flight out of Manila. As we cruised at 30,000 feet above the Philippine archipelago, turbulence hit hard. A fellow passenger, unbuckled, was flung from his seat into the overhead compartment. Then came the captain’s chilling announcement:

“We are approaching Typhoon Pedring. If we stay on this course, the storm will tear this aircraft apart.”

Cries of panic followed. Moments later, lightning struck the plane. The damage was minimal, but the danger was real. The pilot calmly changed course, and thanks to his judgment, we made it safely to Nagoya, Japan, and eventually home.

That flight remains etched in my memory—not just because of the storm, but because of the pilot’s clarity. He understood the limits of both aircraft and self. His willingness to course-correct saved lives.

In our culture, we often equate quitting with failure. We grow up believing every outcome must be classified as either success or defeat. I’ve lived by that metric, pushing forward when wisdom might have advised retreat. But I’ve since learned that success sometimes requires stepping back, reevaluating, and shifting direction.

Mountaineer Ed Viesturs knows this lesson well. In his book No Shortcuts to the Top, he recounts turning back just 300 feet from a summit, recognizing the risk was too great. He would return later to complete the climb. Viesturs went on to become the first American to summit all 14 of the world’s highest peaks—each over 26,000 feet. His story illustrates a powerful truth: perseverance matters, but discernment saves lives.

The road to success is rarely linear. It’s steep, uneven, and often humbling. Failure, when properly understood, is not a dead end—it’s a redirection. It can guide us toward wiser decisions and greater resilience, if we’re willing to listen.

As the Greek poet Hesiod wrote:

“Badness you can get easily, in quantity: the road is smooth, and it lies close by. But in front of excellence the immortal gods have put sweat, and long and steep is the way to it, and rough at first. But when you come to the top, then it is easy, even though it is hard.”

I learned a difficult lesson that rainy day in the Philippines: when instincts whisper—listen. When signs point to danger—change course. There is no weakness in that. In fact, there may be nothing braver.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Universal Human-Animal Bond

A few years ago, I had the privilege of spending several weeks in Mexico as a veterinary ambassador. What I experienced there left an indelible mark on my heart—not only as a veterinarian, but as a human being.

Our team began in the outskirts of Querétaro, where we set up a pop-up wellness clinic beneath a row of tents. From dawn until dusk, we vaccinated dogs and cats—each animal brought with care and hope by the people who loved them. In the days that followed, we continued in Guadalajara, where we served even more families. Over the span of three long, hot days, we provided vaccinations and preventive care to the beloved pets of more than 1,800 households.

We met with every individual, one by one. We listened to their questions, learned about their animals, and shared knowledge about preventive care. These were some of the longest, most physically demanding days of my career—but the joy and gratitude that filled those hours far outweighed any fatigue. It was profoundly moving.

What struck me most was not just the volume of pets we treated—it was the universal love people had for their animals. In each village, families brought their dogs and cats however they could: tucked gently into shopping bags, wrapped in cloth, or carried tenderly in their arms. Some children waited in line for hours under the scorching sun, determined to ensure their furry companions received care. I saw in their eyes the same love and concern I see every day in my own community back home.

In many places we visited, the cultural understanding of pet care differed from what we’re used to. For example, many families viewed leashes as cruel and instead guided their dogs by lifting their front legs and walking them gently on their hind limbs. It was clear these animals were cherished—and remarkably patient.

The scenes were humbling. Lines stretched around city blocks. Families waited without complaint. The sense of devotion, even in the face of scarcity, was unmistakable. It was a powerful reminder: the human-animal bond knows no borders. It is stitched into the hearts of people everywhere, regardless of language, culture, or circumstance.

I believe that when we serve others, we are always given something in return. In Mexico, I went to give—but I came home with more than I could have imagined. The reciprocity of service is real: the effort we expend is returned to us tenfold, not in material things, but in connection, fulfillment, and purpose.

Veterinary medicine is more than a profession—it is a calling rooted in compassion. It asks us to advocate for those who cannot speak for themselves. It requires not only clinical skill, but also heart. To truly make a difference, one must care deeply—not just for animals, but for the people who love them.

Dr. Seuss, through the voice of the Lorax, once said: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” In this line, I find truth that echoes through the work we do each day.

At Mountain West Animal Hospital, this belief forms the core of everything we do. We care—deeply. We stand for life, for dignity, and for the right of every animal to live free of pain and suffering. Our mission is not just to heal, but to uplift—to honor the human-animal bond wherever we find it.

Because that bond, in all its beauty and universality, is one of the most profound connections we will ever know.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Itch Is On!

Springtime in Utah County is breathtaking. As winter finally releases its overpowering grip, new life emerges all around us. The fresh scent of blooming flowers, the vibrant green of new grass, and the cheerful songs of birds awaken a sense of joy in those of us longing for warmer days.

But spring comes with a certain irony. While I love this season dearly, it also ushers in the annual ritual of sniffling, sneezing, runny noses, and itchy eyes. In my family, atopy—the genetic tendency toward allergies—has been an unwelcome companion for generations. We’re all highly allergic to grass, alfalfa, and flowers.

Growing up, I had a love-hate relationship with spring. Outside my bedroom window stood a rosebush that bloomed spectacularly each year. To most, it was a beautiful sight. To me, it was seasonal misery. That rosebush triggered relentless allergy attacks: nights spent wheezing, sniffling, and rubbing my red, swollen eyes. I remember lying in bed with a cold washcloth pressed over my face, unable to sleep, study, or do much of anything. One particularly bad night, I scrawled in my journal, “Today: more allergies. Oh, I hate them.”

It’s no wonder I feel deep sympathy for my veterinary patients who suffer from allergies. Unlike people, pets typically don’t sneeze or rub their eyes; instead, they scratch, chew, lick, rub, shake their heads, or develop chronic ear infections. Many arrive at my clinic with bleeding paws and raw, open sores from constant scratching. The insatiable itch drives them mad. Every waking hour becomes a battle they can’t win.

Allergies are, without question, one of the most common and challenging conditions I see as a veterinarian. It’s heartbreaking to witness their suffering, and often they are even more miserable than we can imagine.

Fortunately, there’s hope. With a thoughtful allergy-prevention regimen and modern veterinary care, we can significantly improve their quality of life.

Here are a few key steps you can take to help your pet:

• Control the environment. Vacuum frequently and use electrostatic cleaning products (like a Swiffer) to remove dust and allergens from floors and surfaces. Air purifiers or whole-house filtration systems can reduce airborne irritants.

• Bathe regularly. Contrary to the old belief that frequent bathing dries out the skin, veterinary dermatologists now recommend bathing allergic pets weekly—or even daily in severe cases—during spring and summer. Regular baths wash away allergens before they’re absorbed into the skin. Dry shampoos, sprays, and wipes can be great alternatives, especially for dogs who dislike baths or for cats who typically won’t tolerate them.

• Consider food allergies. Allergic reactions to pet food are often caused by proteins such as beef, eggs, dairy, soy, or fish. If food allergies are suspected, your veterinarian can guide you through an elimination diet trial. These trials help pinpoint the culprit and lead to a diet that’s both nutritionally complete and hypoallergenic, often with pre-digested proteins. If your dog needs medications and has food sensitivities, Greenies Pill Pockets Allergy Formula (made from peas and duck) are a helpful option for administering pills without triggering a reaction.

• Explore new treatments. One of the most promising advancements in veterinary dermatology is immunotherapy. Cytopoint is an injectable treatment designed to target Interleukin-31, a protein that triggers itching in allergic dogs. By neutralizing this protein, Cytopoint can provide significant, lasting relief from itching for many dogs.

If your pet suffers from allergies, don’t wait. Schedule an appointment with your veterinarian and work together to create a treatment plan. Every pet deserves a life free from pain and suffering, and with the options available today, we can manage allergies better than ever before.

When you stop the itch, everyone sleeps better.

And that’s my take!

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Forget Me Not

High in the beautiful mountains of Alaska grows a tiny, unassuming flower. It’s easy to miss, blending quietly into the surrounding vegetation. But if you pause—if you truly look—you’ll find a remarkable little masterpiece.

Its dark green stems and leaves are like any other plant. But its blossoms set it apart: delicate petals of sky-blue, capturing the brilliance of a cloudless summer day. Small though it is, this flower lingers in the memory. Fittingly, it’s called the “Forget Me Not.”

A few years ago, I visited a sprawling cemetery. I wandered quietly through the endless rows of marble headstones, many dating back to the 18th and 19th centuries. Moss clung to their bases, and time had softened the names and dates carved into the stone until many were barely legible.

I stood among thousands of graves. And I wondered: Who were these people? What lives did they lead? What stories did they leave behind? A few are still remembered. Most, I realized, are not.

As I read those fading inscriptions, I found myself asking: Is this what will become of me? When I, too, go the way of all living things, will I be remembered? Will I leave a legacy worth remembering?

My thoughts turned to the small cemetery in Castle Dale, Utah—the little town where I was raised. It’s a place that’s easy to overlook. But for me, it holds deep meaning. The cemetery sits on the north end of Center Street. One summer, when I was in high school, I worked there as a caretaker. Week after week, I mowed the lawn and trimmed the grass around each headstone with quiet reverence.

Many of my own ancestors are buried there. My great-great-grandmother. My great-grandparents. My grandparents. A beloved uncle. Even an infant cousin. They all rest in that sacred ground.

My great-grandfather died long before I was born. But I have a photograph of him—smiling faintly as he sits on the grass in a pair of worn bib overalls. Though aged and weary, his character shines through that old photo. It brings to mind something Thomas Edison once said: “I have friends in overalls whose friendship I would not swap for the favor of all the kings of the world.”

My grandfather passed when I was just three years old. What I know of him comes mostly from the stories others have told me. He served as the county clerk for more than two decades. Like his father before him, he was a dryland farmer who worked tirelessly to provide for his six children. The land they worked—season after season, year after year—still belongs to our family today.

My uncle Jerry passed away in 2016. I owe him my life. When I was five years old, I stood in the doorway of his kitchen, holding one of his favorite pink wintergreen candies. I popped one into my mouth, and it lodged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Without hesitation, Jerry calmly walked over, gave me a firm push on the stomach, and sent the candy flying across the room. To know Jerry Bott was to know one of the finest people I have ever met. He was the embodiment of loyalty, charity, and love.

Their graves lie side by side on the south end of the cemetery’s middle section. Each of them lived lives of quiet courage and unwavering kindness. They treated others with respect, offered helping hands, spoke honest words, and smiled freely. Through long years and hard miles, they gave their best. And when life’s storms came, they stood and faced them with grace and strength.

As long as my heart beats, they will not be forgotten.

They continue to inspire me. Their legacy calls me to be a better father, a better friend, and a better man.

Like the tiny Forget Me Not—humble and easily overlooked—each of us, no matter how small or unnoticed we may seem, has an important role to play in the great tapestry of life and in the legacy we leave behind.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: The Attribute of Adaptability

In 1971, the Rocky Mountain elk (Cervus canadensis nelsoni) was rightfully named the official state animal of Utah. Known also as wapiti—a word gifted to us by the Shawnee and Cree, meaning “white rump”—this noble creature stands as one of the great icons of the American West. A member of the deer family, the elk holds kinship with the mule deer and the moose that roam our wild places. Yet among these, the elk is perhaps the most gregarious, gathering in herds that can number over 500, moving as one across vast and varied landscapes.

The elk is a sight that stirs the soul in any season. Towering and regal, these animals are more than just symbols of strength—they are living embodiments of adaptability and grace. Few creatures move so effortlessly between worlds. Whether wandering the dense forests, crossing windswept plains, ascending rugged mountains, or traversing sunbaked deserts, the elk adapts and endures. Their diet is as varied as the lands they inhabit: grazing on grasses throughout the year, browsing woody plants in winter’s grip, and feeding on tender forbs in the warmth of summer. It is this adaptability that has secured their place in the wild for countless generations.

Here in Utah, they range from the lofty heights above Skyline Drive, at elevations surpassing 11,000 feet, to the red rock canyons and open desert expanses of the San Rafael Swell. They are as at ease beneath the towering quaking aspens and Douglas firs as they are among the twisted junipers and fragrant sagebrush of our state’s arid lands.

As a boy growing up near the Manti-La Sal National Forest, I was blessed with frequent glimpses of these majestic creatures. I remember autumn nights spent camping beneath a canopy of stars, the air crisp and still. In that sacred silence, there would often rise a sound unlike any other—the haunting bugle of a bull elk. It begins as a deep, resonant call, rising swiftly into a high, ethereal whistle before cascading into a series of low grunts. It echoes through pine-clad ridges, sweeps across broad valleys, and rolls down winding canyons. Even the most seasoned woodsman feels his heart quicken at that sound. It is nature’s anthem—raw, wild, and beautiful. To hear it is to feel something ancient awaken within you.

As a veterinarian, I now have the distinct honor of working with several herds of elk. Each encounter deepens my reverence for these animals. They are more than their strength and size; they embody resilience, freedom, and the unbreakable will to endure. Pictured here is a herd near Birdseye, Utah—a breathtaking reminder of the wild heritage we are privileged to witness and protect.

The elk is a symbol of power and perseverance, but also of freedom in its purest form. From them, we learn the wisdom of adaptability. Were we to embrace even a measure of their ability to adjust and thrive, we too would be unshaken by life’s changes. We would be courageous, steadfast, and bold—undaunted by the unknown.

When I am faced with life’s uncertainties, I often think of the majestic Rocky Mountain elk—standing tall against the piercing wind, unyielding, and at home in any land.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Chris LeDoux 

Wednesday, March 9, 2005, began like any other day. At that time in my life, I was nearing the end of my studies and preparing to graduate from Southern Utah University. My classes finished around noon, leaving me with an open afternoon. With a bit of time on my hands, I decided to go shopping for a new chest of drawers.

I climbed into my Chevy S-10 and headed south on Main Street in Cedar City, Utah. The remnants of a recent snowstorm still lingered—mounds of snow piled along the sidewalks, slowly surrendering to the early spring sun. As was my habit, I tuned the radio to KONY Country as I drove. A Chris LeDoux song came on, and without thinking, I reached over and turned up the volume. As the song faded out, another Chris LeDoux track began to play. That was unusual. Hearing one of his songs on the radio was a rare treat; hearing two back-to-back was almost unheard of. In that moment, I felt a sinking in my chest. Something wasn’t right.

When the second song ended, the DJ came on and confirmed what I had already begun to fear. Earlier that day, Chris LeDoux had lost his battle with a rare form of cancer—cholangiocarcinoma.

Chris LeDoux was, in every sense, a man’s man. Whatever he did, he did with humility, grit, and unwavering dedication. He wasn’t born with extraordinary gifts, but through sheer hard work and determination, he made himself extraordinary. He was an acclaimed sculptor, a world champion bareback rider, and a legendary country music artist whose songs spoke directly to people like me—people who knew something about hard work, dusty fields, and wide-open spaces.

His music was a constant companion throughout my youth. I spent countless hours working on the farm with his songs in my ears—songs that spoke of digging and tamping postholes, stretching wire tight, and irrigating alfalfa fields. His lyrics captured the rhythms of a life I knew intimately. And even now, as I’ve traveled farther and wider than I ever imagined, I hear his voice in the places I visit—from Spokane to Manhattan, Salt Lake to Seattle, north to Billings and the Yukon River, and south to Fort Worth and San Antonio. His songs continue to connect me to places and memories that shaped who I am.

I had the privilege of seeing Chris perform live dozens of times. He was always gracious, always genuine. He remains the finest performer I have ever seen. Twenty years have passed since his death, but his music and his example still ride with me.

On his final studio album, Chris recorded a song called The Ride. In it, he spoke of meeting death with courage, 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.

Thank you, Chris, for living an exemplary life, and for teaching this cowboy from Castle Dale, Utah, so much about hard work, humility, and grace—through your songs, your example, and the way you carried yourself.

Good ride, cowboy. Good ride.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Where the Daffodils Grow

On August 22, 1877, Brigham Young issued his final call for settlers to establish themselves in Castle Valley. Just seven days later, the “Great Colonizer” passed away, making this his last directive. If you’ve ever visited Emery County, you might leave with the feeling that the best was, indeed, saved for last.

Castle Valley is a land of extremes—where the towering Wasatch Mountains rise mystically to the west and the San Rafael Desert stretches endlessly to the east, a landscape of stark, breathtaking desolation. Yet, even among the sagebrush and junipers, there is a quiet, unyielding beauty waiting to be seen by those who look closely.

My great-great-grandfather, Boye Petersen, answered Brigham Young’s call and became one of Castle Dale’s original settlers. He homesteaded the West Farm, a 48-acre piece of land that remains in our family to this day. A straight road connects Castle Dale to Orangeville, running past that land—a road fittingly named Bott Lane.

Growing up in Castle Dale shaped me in ways that continue to define me. It instilled in me a strong work ethic, a vivid imagination, and a rare sense of self-awareness. This place is my home—not just in memory but in spirit. Emery County has a way of healing me. It is my sanctuary, my constant, the quiet refuge where I can reflect and recharge. Though I now live two hours north in Utah County, my heart remains tethered to the well-worn paths of my youth and the Blue Clay Hills just south of Castle Dale. Trail Mountain lightning runs through my veins, and Castle Valley thunder echoes in my chest.

Winters in Castle Valley can be relentless. The snow lingers, the ice thickens, and farm chores become grueling. Milking cows and hauling hay become battles against the elements. Manure piles freeze as hard as stone, and the ground around the water troughs turns to treacherous sheets of ice. In those long, frigid months, the yearning for spring is almost instinctive.

It was during one of those bitter winters that I first noticed them—small green shoots pressing through the frozen ground along the shaded path by my uncle Jerry’s house. Each morning and afternoon, as I crossed the street toward the corral, I would pass that same spot, watching as those brave little leaves pushed upward, undeterred by the frost. The sight was a quiet promise: winter’s grip was loosening, and spring was on its way.

The daffodils came quickly after that, rising with a certainty that felt almost miraculous. Their golden trumpets stood tall, a fanfare of yellow against the lingering gray of winter. They swayed in the breeze as if tomorrow was assured.

And then, just as suddenly as they arrived, they were gone—vanishing until the next year.

The Latin name for daffodil is Narcissus, a nod to the Greek myth of a river god’s son. Fleeting as their bloom may be, they remain a gift for those who pause long enough to notice them—soaking up the sunlight, drinking in yesterday’s rain, standing tall despite their transience.

Daffodils remind me of my uncle Jerry. He passed away in 2016, but his kindness, along with that of his twin brother Jeffry, remains unmatched. He was a gentle giant, steady and quiet, much like those golden blooms.

As winter fades, the robins and sparrows will return, heralding the change of seasons. The rivers and streams will swell with mountain runoff, and nature’s palette will once again color Castle Valley.

And, in Castle Dale, Utah, where the daffodils grow, spring will follow at last.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

My Take Tuesday: Sheep and Stoicism

Sheep can be stubborn. I learned this firsthand as a child while trying to herd our small flock of ewes to a nearby pasture. The distance was short—just about a hundred yards—but the task proved anything but simple. As soon as I turned them out, chaos erupted. The sheep scattered in every direction, ignoring my efforts entirely. When the dust settled, I found myself lying on my back, covered in sheep snot, staring up at the blue sky. Not a single sheep had made it to the intended pasture. Instead, they were all over town.

Shortly after this debacle, my great-uncle, Boyd Bott, shared a simple yet profound lesson: “You can’t herd sheep. You have to lead them.” It’s a lesson I have never forgotten.

With a pail of grain in hand, leading the sheep became effortless. Instead of resisting, they eagerly followed wherever I went. From that moment on, moving the flock was no longer a battle—it was easy.

Sheep have an instinct to follow. When one decides to move, the rest of the flock usually falls in line, even if the path is unwise. Humans are remarkably similar. It’s no coincidence that, throughout the Bible, people are often compared to sheep. We resist when pushed but follow when led.

There is no better teacher of patience than a small herd of sheep. They demand attention, protection, and care.

So the next time you feel frustration creeping in, consider leading instead of pushing—guiding instead of forcing. More often than not, it yields a far better outcome.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

(Photo: Dr. Bott holding a newborn lamb on his family farm, 1985.)