DocBott

My Take Tuesday: When the Pavement Burns

I love summertime.

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

Summer has always felt like a season of freedom.

But as a veterinarian, I have learned that summer also carries a shadow.
Every year, I see it arrive at the clinic door.

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

And it does not just claim the old or the frail. It takes the healthy, the young, and the energetic. The dog who was "only going to be in the truck for a minute."
The dog who chased the ball one throw too many.

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

Until he wasn't.

By the time his family carried him into the clinic, he was already slipping away. His temperature was 107 degrees. Despite every effort, we could not save him.
That is one of the heartbreaking things about dogs.

They love too hard and quit too late.

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

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

So here is my summertime plea.
If the pavement is too hot for your bare feet, it is too hot for their paws.
If it is too hot for you to sit comfortably in a parked vehicle with the windows cracked, it is too hot for them—even for "just a minute."

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

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

I want your dogs to enjoy summer just as much as you do. I want them at the fishing hole, wagging their tails beside the campfire, or curled up on the porch after a day at the lake. But I also want them alive. Safe. With you.

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

There is nothing better than summertime.

Let's make sure everyone gets to enjoy it.

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

My Take Tuesday: Lessons from a Lamb

In the spring of 1988, the C–D (C bar D) 4-H Club met often in preparation for the Southeastern Utah Junior Livestock Show in Ferron, Utah. Our advisor, Diane Bott, poured her heart into helping every member get ready for the big event. Each meeting began with the familiar cadence of the 4-H pledge—a ritual that still echoes in my mind today:

“I pledge my head to clearer thinking,
My heart to greater loyalty,
My hands to larger service,
And my health to better living,
For my club, my community, my country, and my world.”

People often ask: What’s the real benefit of 4-H?

The answer depends on who you ask. Many will say it builds character, instills discipline, teaches responsibility, and connects youth with agriculture. All of that is true—but I believe the greatest gift of 4-H runs even deeper.

For me, one of the most meaningful parts of the 4-H experience is the confidence it builds in young people who learn to care for something entirely dependent on them. I remember one young 4-H’er who was hesitant to even step into the pen with the lamb he planned to show that year. The year before, he’d been knocked down by a big ram while helping his dad feed the sheep, and the memory left him scared. But that lamb needed him—it couldn’t eat, drink, or have a clean pen without his help. So, little by little, he faced his fear. He learned to trust, to try again, and to take pride in what he could do.

I still catch a glimpse of that boy every time I look in the mirror.

I’ll never forget how attached I became to my own first lamb. I was only seven years old, and when the sale day came, I cried as I hugged that lamb goodbye. It was my first taste of how love and loss can coexist—and how responsibility can shape the heart.

Caring for animals brings out something special in us. Whether it’s a lamb, a piglet, a calf, a puppy, or a kitten, children learn what it means to have a living creature rely on them. It teaches empathy, respect for life, commitment, and consistency. It builds self-confidence and a quiet kind of joy that lasts long after the chores are done.

I’m deeply grateful for my time as a 4-H’er.

The photo here is of me with my first lamb at the Ferron stock show in 1988.
The smile on my face then is just as wide as the one I have now, remembering that day.

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

My Take Tuesday: The June Morning Awn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bandit lay on a bed of straw, his chest rising and falling in short, strained bursts. His eyes met mine with a mixture of trust and desperation. I knelt beside him, gently feeling his throat, listening, watching. His breathing was ragged, whistling with every inhale. A small trickle of blood stained the fur beneath his left nostril.
“This isn’t his throat,” I murmured. “It’s higher up—likely his nose.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Take Tuesday: The Cost of the Calling

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

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

It didn’t.

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

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

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

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

Who knew?

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

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

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

Not for a second.

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

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

That seems like sound advice.

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

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

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

At least for six weeks.

We’ll see how that goes.

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

My Take Tuesday: The Fragility of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He handed me the sack.

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

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

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

“Isaac, I know you’ll do a good job.”

I stood there holding the bag as he turned and walked back across the street.
How do you hatch pheasant eggs? I wondered.

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

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

And somehow, all eight hatched.

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

I could hardly contain my excitement.

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

He smiled.

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

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

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

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

His advice was simple and profound.

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

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

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

Some things never change. Other things change us forever.

That summer evening changed me.

The lesson Uncle Jerry taught me was not lost.

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

This is the lesson my dear Uncle Jerry taught me.

It is a responsibility I hold sacred.

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