DocBott

My Take Tuesday: The Hippopotamus

Years ago, I was swimming in Lima, Peru, when I saw one of my favorite breeds of dog paddling through the pool—a Peruvian Inca Orchid.

For those unfamiliar, the Peruvian Inca Orchid is a remarkable breed. Sleek. Ancient. Elegant. Completely hairless. They are native to Peru. Normally, they weigh around 40–50 pounds.

This one had apparently moved to a much larger neighborhood.

He was a magnificent specimen—round, buoyant, and glistening in the Peruvian sun like a well-fed river creature with excellent self-esteem. His owner was helping him swim, and he was doing his best, rolling through the water with all the grace of a canoe full of potatoes.

Just then, a small child walked to the edge of the pool. He stopped. He stared. His little brow wrinkled with the honest confusion only a child can get away with.

Then he looked up at his mother and asked, “Is that a hippopotamus?”

His mother laughed and said, “No, son. It’s just a large dog.”

And technically, she was right.

But I saw the boy’s point.

From his angle, that hairless, barrel-bodied dog drifting through the water looked less like a pet and more like something that ought to be featured on a nature documentary.

Children have a gift for saying the thing everyone else is trying not to say. Adults dress things up. We soften the edges. We say “big-boned,” “stout,” “well-conditioned,” or “food motivated.”

A child just looks at the pool and says, “hippopotamus.”

And sometimes, there is wisdom in that.

Veterinary medicine has taught me that beauty comes in many shapes. Some animals are graceful. Some are majestic. Some are aerodynamic.

But every one of them has a story, a personality, and someone who loves them.
That big Peruvian Inca Orchid may not have been built like a show dog, but he was loved enough to be swimming in a pool in Lima with his owner right beside him. And that says something.

Sometimes love looks like ribbons and perfect posture.

Sometimes it looks like a hairless dog doing laps while a child questions his taxonomic classification.

Either way, it made me smile.

And that oversized Peruvian Inca Orchid truly did look vaguely Hippopotamus amphibius.

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

Ken Peay

There is something profoundly humbling about standing at the edge of loss. It strips away pretense. It reminds us what actually mattered all along.

What matters is how people felt around us.
Did they feel seen? Did they feel loved? Did they feel less alone?

Around Ken, people felt less alone. And that may be one of the greatest compliments a person can leave behind.

I suspect Heaven feels a little steadier tonight.
A little kinder.
A little more like home.
Because Ken Peay arrived there.

On this side of the sky, men like Ken do not come along very often.

He was as tough as steel.

Not pretend tough. Not performative tough. But genuinely tough—the kind forged slowly through hardship, responsibility, sacrifice, and years of standing firm when life demanded everything a man had to give.

From 1970 to 1973, Ken was stationed in West Germany during one of the most dangerous periods in modern history. His assignment was to cross into East Germany and obtain reconnaissance photographs. Every mission carried risk. Every crossing carried uncertainty. On one occasion, his vehicle was narrowly missed by active gunfire.

Most people could never fully comprehend the pressure of living under that kind of constant threat.

But Ken endured it quietly.

And when his military service ended, his service to others did not.

He returned home and dedicated 29 years to the Utah Highway Patrol. He rose to become head of the Utah County service office and later served as lieutenant commander of the Mounted Patrol during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City. He also served as bodyguard to Governors Bangerter and Matheson.

It is the kind of life story most people only read about.

A life marked by courage, by duty, by sacrifice, and steadiness.

But what strikes me most about Ken is that despite everything he accomplished, he never carried himself as though he were above anyone else. There was no arrogance in him. Only quiet confidence.

As a child, I was obsessed with He-Man action figures. My favorite was always Man-At-Arms—the commander of the royal guard. He had piercing eyes, a thick mustache, and represented strength, loyalty, and unwavering dedication. To me, he embodied what a protector should be.

The first time I met Ken Peay, I remember thinking I had just met Man-At-Arms in real life. He possessed all the same qualities. He had strength without cruelty, authority without ego, and loyalty without condition. He was a man’s man in the truest sense of the phrase.

And somehow, this mountain of a man became my friend. I honestly still struggle to express how much that friendship has meant to me.

Ken volunteered hundreds upon hundreds of hours helping care for the reindeer herd at Mountain West Animal Hospital. And I say this sincerely: he is the only person I ever trusted completely with those animals.

Reindeer are sensitive creatures. They read people remarkably well. Nervous energy unsettles them. Impatience agitates them.

But Ken had this remarkable calmness about him.

Even the reindeer sensed it.

His observant eye, steady demeanor, and quiet patience brought peace wherever he went.

Twice, I needed help transporting reindeer from Oregon to Utah—a grueling trip of nearly 900 miles each direction. And twice, Ken never hesitated. He hooked up his own gooseneck trailer, climbed into his truck, and simply showed up.

That was Ken.

He just did what needed to be done.

I could tell stories like this for hours. Stories of loyalty. Stories of kindness. Stories of quiet sacrifice that nobody else ever saw.

Because the thing about Ken was this: He loved through action.

Cowboys rarely announce their love in speeches or dramatic displays. They express it through reliability. Through service. Through showing up when storms roll in.

And Ken showed up.

Every single time.

I think one reason this loss feels so heavy is because people like Ken begin to feel permanent to us. We subconsciously believe they will always be there. Always standing steady against the wind. Always ready to help. Always carrying strength enough for everyone around them.

But eventually even the strongest cowboys face their final storm.

In late 2023, Ken was diagnosed with multiple myeloma—the same relentless cancer that claimed Governor Matheson years earlier. A cruel disease that attacks the bone marrow and immune system.

And yet, true to who he was, Ken faced that diagnosis the same way he faced every challenge in his life.

Head-on.

With grit forged in the trenches. With humility. With courage to lead when the path is uncertain.

He pulled his hat down tight and endured chemotherapy, radiation, pain, exhaustion, and eventually a stem cell transplant. Treatments that would break many people physically and emotionally.

But not Ken.

He endured it all with the stoicism of a cowboy.

And through that experience, he taught me something I will carry the rest of my life:

Toughness is not the absence of pain.

Toughness is refusing to surrender to it.

He faced it all directly.

And in doing so, he taught the rest of us how to stand a little taller ourselves.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that the greatest men are rarely the loudest men.

They are the dependable ones.

The ones who answer the phone.
The ones who help move cattle in a storm.
The ones who quietly pull suffering onto their own shoulders, so others do not have to carry it alone.
The ones whose integrity remains intact long after nobody is watching.

That was Ken Peay.

And this world desperately needs more men like him.

Ten years ago, my marriage began to fall apart, I found myself walking through one of the most painful and disorienting seasons of my life. There are hurts so deep that they are difficult to even put into words. The pages of that chapter were hard to read, let alone live.

And through all of it, Ken listened.

Then he listened some more.

He never rushed me. Never minimized the pain. Never tried to offer shallow answers to wounds that were far too deep for clichés. He simply sat with me in it.

I still remember his words:
“Isaac, I am so sorry.”

And he meant it.

You could feel the sincerity in his voice. You could feel his heart breaking alongside yours. There was something profoundly healing about being truly heard by someone who genuinely cared.

Ken had that gift.

He helped me navigate some very dark days. In many ways, he helped me slowly turn the pages of my life that at the time felt almost impossible to read. When grief, disappointment, and uncertainty clouded everything ahead, he offered steadiness, compassion, and friendship without condition.

That kind of presence in another person’s life is sacred.

And I will always be grateful that when I needed someone most, Ken was there.
A few months ago, I found myself at the oncology center for one of my regular therapeutic phlebotomies for hemochromatosis. Sitting in the chair beside me was my friend, Ken Peay. For four long years, Ken endured the kind of treatments that test a person physically, emotionally, and spiritually. The oncology center had become part of his life in a way none of us would ever choose.

When he saw me there, his face changed immediately. He was deeply concerned.
“Isaac, what are you doing here?” he asked.

I explained that I was there for routine phlebotomy treatments related to iron overload. But even then—even while carrying his own burdens, his own uncertainty, his own fight—Ken’s focus turned completely toward me. He wanted to know if I was okay. He wanted to know how he could help.

I remember sitting there thinking how remarkable that was.

Here was a man walking through years of cancer treatment, yet his first instinct was concern for someone else sitting in the neighboring chair.

That was Ken.

He possessed a rare kind of goodness—the kind that does not announce itself loudly. The kind that quietly reveals itself in hospital rooms, difficult days, and sacred little moments when most people would understandably be consumed by their own suffering.

But Ken never seemed to live that way.
Even in hardship, he looked outward.
Even in pain, he carried compassion.
Even while fighting his own battle, he was trying to lift someone else.
That was the kind of man he was.
And I will never forget it.

Ken, I want you to know something.

I love you very much.

You shaped my life more than you probably ever realized.

Your example mattered. Your friendship mattered. Your loyalty mattered.

You taught me what it means to endure with dignity. How to serve quietly.
How to remain steady in the storm.

You left fingerprints on my heart that time itself will never erase.

And while today our hearts break at saying goodbye, I cannot help but imagine that somewhere beyond this life, you are finally at peace.

No more pain. No more hospitals. No more treatments. No more storms to weather.

Just open country.

And I imagine you there now—
Strong once again.
Sitting horseback.
Collar turned up.
Hat pulled low.
Finally, home.

Cowboys like Ken never truly leave us.

Part of them remains behind in every life they touched.

And though today Ken rides farther ahead than the rest of us can yet follow, I believe with all my heart that someday, down the trail, we will see our friend again.

I love you, my dear friend.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Sunday Stanza

Trujillo: City of Eternal Spring

Where desert hush meets ocean’s breath,
Trujillo rises, defying death—
A city shaped by wind and time,
By ancient hands and truths sublime.

Adobe walls of Chimú remain,
Etched with whispers of sun and rain.
Fingerprints pressed in earthen clay,
Still warm with stories of yesterday.

Chan Chan stretches, vast and wide,
A kingdom carved by the ocean’s tide.
Corridors echo with footsteps gone,
Yet carry the pulse of a people on.

The huacas stand in solemn tune—
Temples of sun, temples of moon.
Moche hands once shaped the sky,
With ritual, rhythm, and asking why.

The coastal plain—both stark and kind,
A paradox etched in earth and mind.
Where sugarcane bends in emerald rows,
And desert wind forever blows.

The Moche River threads its way,
A lifeline born of distant spray.
Through valleys carved by hope and hand,
It breathes out life across the land.

Beyond it all, the Pacific Ocean calls,
Endless blue that rises and falls.
Once bearing sails of conquest near,
Now whispers calm to those who hear.

Surfers trace what ships once knew,
Seabirds stitch the sky in view.
Salt and sunlight kiss the shore,
Where past and present meet once more.

In plazas bright with colors bold,
Balconies gleam in wood and gold.
Each lattice carved, each shadow cast,
A quiet dialogue with the past.

The Trujillo Cathedral stands in patient grace,
A sentinel of time and place.
Its weathered stones, both worn and wise,
Have watched the centuries drift like skies.

At the Plaza de Armas the city finds its frame,
Four roads converge, like spokes to a flame—
Pizarro, Independencia, Orbegoso, Almagro aligned,
Each bearing the weight of a people and time.
They gather as one at the heart of it all,
Where footsteps have answered history’s call.

Yet spring eternal crowns this land,
With gentle breeze and tempered sand.
No harsh extremes, no bitter claim—
Just steady warmth, a constant flame.

And somewhere here, beneath this sky,
A younger soul once questioned why—
Why hearts are drawn to heal and mend,
Why broken lives we strive to tend.

Among these streets, these winds, this light,
A path was set, though out of sight.
Not in thunder, nor grand decree—
But quiet clarity… becoming me.

Trujillo lives—both old and true,
In ancient clay and morning dew.
A place that gives, then gently brings
The courage found in humble things.

And though I’ve wandered far from her eternal spring,
Trujillo, Peru’s gentle echo still remains in everything.

DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Tempus Fugit

This week marks seventeen years since I graduated from veterinary school. Seventeen 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 seventeen years would bring.

I’ve had the rare opportunity to consult in eight countries and twenty-seven states, working across thirty-nine species in reproduction alone. I’ve performed more than 50,000 small animal exams, contributed yearly to scientific literature, and recently authored my first textbook chapter. I’ve also helped grow a thriving practice.

Along the way, I’ve been challenged, humbled, mentored, and continually 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

Sunday Stanza: The Road Calls

Blacktop ribbons stretch and spin,
under wheels that never quite settle in.
The night leans heavy, the cold cuts deep,
yet promises made are the ones I keep.

A collar’s slip, a hoof’s wrong turn,
a whispered call when the barn lights burn.
Through sleet and sorrow, rain, and roar,
I answer knocks at the midnight door.

A foal down hard, a heifer breached,
a frantic voice just out of reach.
I bring my hands, my tools, my heart—
to help where hope begins to part.

A life built not on gold or gain,
but on moments cradled in hands and rain.
A lamb’s first cry, a colt’s first stand,
the quiet weight of a trusting hand.

Sometimes it’s blood, sometimes it’s grace,
a tear-streaked hug in a muddy place.
To save a life, to ease the pain—
that’s why I do this, night, or rain.

There are miles to forget, and miles I won't,
patients I've saved and ones I don't.
But in every mile, in every ache,
beats a stubborn heart that will not break.

Years blur past in dashboard light,
Trading rest for one more fight.
The ones I’ve lost still ride with me,
Ghosts of grace and memory.

I drive the dark with hope held fast,
A vet, a voice, until the last.
Not for glory. Not for fame.
‘Cause the road still calls my name.

DocBott

Theriogenology Thursday: The canine oocyte is ovulated immature and requires 48–72 hours to become fertilizable—timing breeding to ovulation alone will often miss the mark.

My Take Tuesday: The Itch Is On!

Spring in Utah County is a welcome awakening.

As winter loosens its grip, the world breathes again—green pushing through the soil, blossoms opening to the sun, and birds filling the morning air with song. It’s a season that stirs something hopeful in all of us.

And yet… for some, spring carries a different kind of awakening.

For me—and for generations of my family—it signals the return of allergies. The sniffling. The sneezing. The relentless itching. Atopy, that inherited tendency toward hypersensitivity, has been a faithful (and unwelcome) companion in our lives. Grass, alfalfa, flowers—nature’s beauty has always come with a cost.

I remember a rosebush just outside my bedroom window growing up. Each spring, it bloomed with striking beauty… and brought with it nights of misery. I’d lie awake, eyes burning and swollen, a cold washcloth draped across my face, hoping for relief that rarely came. On one particularly bad night, I wrote in my journal: “Today more allergies, oh I hate them.”

It was a simple sentence—but an honest one.

Those early experiences shaped something in me—because now, I see that same misery in my patients.

Allergies are one of the most common conditions I treat as a veterinarian. But in pets, they don’t look like sneezing and watery eyes. They show up as scratching, chewing, rubbing, head-shaking… and often, painful ear infections. I see dogs with paws worn raw, skin inflamed, sometimes even bleeding. The itch becomes their entire world—an unrelenting distraction they cannot escape.

And it’s heartbreaking.

When our pets suffer, they suffer deeply. In many cases, far more than we do—because they don’t understand why.

The good news is this: we have more tools than ever to help them.

Managing allergies often starts at home. Simple measures—like frequent vacuuming, using electrostatic cleaning tools, and improving air filtration—can significantly reduce environmental allergens. And while it was once thought that frequent bathing might harm the skin, we now know the opposite is often true. Regular bathing—sometimes even daily for severe cases—can help wash allergens off before they trigger a reaction. For many pets, sprays or wipes can be a practical alternative.

Food can also play a role. Many allergic reactions stem from proteins—beef, dairy, eggs, soy, even fish. When food allergies are suspected, a structured elimination trial can help identify the culprit and guide us toward a safer, balanced diet.

And then there are newer therapies—targeted, precise, and often remarkably effective. One of these is Cytopoint, an injection designed to block the very signal that tells a dog to itch. By neutralizing Interleukin-31, it can provide meaningful relief—and, in many cases, restore comfort and quality of life.

But perhaps the most important message is this:

Don’t let them suffer in silence.

If your pet is showing signs of allergies, partner with your veterinarian. Together, we can tailor a plan specific to your pet, your environment, and the season at hand.

Because when we quiet the itch, we give them something invaluable in return—peace.

And in doing so, we often find a little more of it ourselves.

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