DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Where the Stars Kiss the Mountain

There’s a place tucked high in the Manti-La Sal National Forest, cradled between East and Trail Mountains, where time loosens its grip and wonder still drifts freely on the wind. Flat Canyon.

The first time I stood beneath its open sky, I felt the hush of something sacred. The stars didn’t simply appear—they arrived. One by one, they stepped forward from the darkness, lanterns lifted by unseen hands, until the whole firmament glowed in a shimmering, celestial choir. In Flat Canyon, the stars don’t just sparkle—they descend. They lean close, brushing the mountain crests as if offering the ridgeline a quiet, luminous kiss.

There’s no cell service here, no streetlamp humming in competition with ancient starlight. Only cool mountain air and a darkness so honest it lets light reveal its true brilliance. In Flat Canyon, you don’t merely watch the stars—you join them. For a moment, you belong to the sky.

The canyon floor holds a silence that isn’t empty but alive. Pines whisper. Aspen leaves flutter like soft applause. An owl calls from somewhere unseen. A bull elk sends his bugle rolling through the timber. It’s a silence filled with memory, majesty, and meaning—an older kind of quiet that reminds you how much the world still holds.

We spend so much of our lives looking down—at screens, at schedules, at the next obligation waiting to be met. But in Flat Canyon, surrounded by peaks and pine, you can’t help but look up. And when you do, you remember what awe feels like.

We chase beauty across continents, searching for places more exotic, more dramatic, more grand. Yet sometimes wonder waits right here in Utah, high above the noise, in a quiet canyon where the stars bend low enough to kiss the mountain.

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

My Take Tuesday: Frank the Turtle

On August 9th, my dear third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wikersham, passed away—and I’ve been reflecting on the incredible mark she left on so many of us.

Third grade was an exceptionally imaginative era of my childhood, largely thanks to her. I can still picture sitting at my desk in her classroom at Castle Dale Elementary, going through our daily morning routine. Part of that routine was reciting a poem together. Most were short, rhythmic, and easy to memorize—so much so that I can still recite many of them verbatim today.

One of my absolute favorites was about a spunky little reptile:

“There was a little turtle. He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle. He climbed on the rocks.
He snapped at a mosquito. He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow. And he snapped at me.
He caught the mosquito. He caught the flea.
He caught the minnow. But he didn't catch me!”

I can still see Mrs. Wikersham’s animated facial expressions as she led us through the dramatic hand motions. Back then, as a sheltered kid in a small rural town, the idea of a real-life snapping turtle felt like something out of a wild wilderness adventure.

That third-grade memory came rushing back to me recently following an urgent phone call at the clinic.

A panicked pet owner explained that her turtle, Frank, needed a health certificate and a physical exam before boarding an afternoon flight to a warmer state. She had called every clinic around, but no other vet was willing to examine a reptile on such short notice. While exotic pets aren't my primary area of expertise, I couldn't leave her stranded, so I reluctantly agreed to squeeze them in.

Moments later, I walked into the exam room and was met by the most innocent-looking creature imaginable. Frank was tiny, quiet, and possessed a pair of soft, wide eyes that peered up at me trustingly. I held his smooth shell in my hands, gave him a thorough checkup, confirmed he was fit to fly, and signed off on his official travel paperwork.

With the certificate signed, I handed the papers to his owner and wished them safe travels. As a final friendly gesture, I reached down to give Frank a gentle, affectionate pat on the top of his shell.

Big mistake.

Without a microsecond of warning, Frank lunged forward with lightning speed and clamped his beak down hard on the tip of my right index finger.

A shockwave of sharp, throbbing pain shot through my hand and radiated all the way up to my shoulder.

“Ouch!” I yelled, reflexively recoiling. “That really hurts!”

I stood there cradling my hand in complete shock. Frank sat there unbothered, his sweet, unassuming face entirely unchanged. It turns out Frank wasn't quite the timid little traveler he pretended to be.

He might have snapped at that mosquito and caught that flea... but in the end, Frank the turtle caught me, too.

Thank you, Mrs. Wikersham, for the wonderful memories, the joy, and the lessons that stay with us forever.

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

My Take Tuesday: Guided by Greatness

I’ve been fortunate to meet many brilliant minds in veterinary medicine. But only a few leave an imprint so deep that you carry it with you every single day.
Dr. Ahmed Tibary is one of them.

He is a world renowned theriogenologist — a pioneer in camelid reproduction, a gifted clinician, and a scientific force whose legacy will echo for generations. But before the accolades, before the textbooks, and before the Bartlett Award, he was simply… my mentor.

And then he became my friend.

I first met Dr. Tibary wide eyed and eager, unaware of how much I didn’t yet know. He had a way of making complex things make sense — not by simplifying them, but by elevating you. He believed in what I could become long before I had any reason to believe it myself.

He introduced me to camelids — but more importantly, he introduced me to possibility.

He taught me how to approach the unknown: in science, in species, and in people. How to be precise without being rigid, confident without being arrogant, and humble enough to let the animals teach us what we didn’t yet understand. He showed me how to lead with curiosity, compassion, and a commitment to both the science and the soul of veterinary medicine.

And sometimes, his mentorship came in the quietest moments.

Years ago, we shared an elevator — just the two of us. No audience, no fanfare. Somewhere between floors, he turned to me and said:
“One day, you’ll be president of the Society for Theriogenology.”

I laughed. I didn’t believe it — not even a little. I was just a student, still finding my footing. The idea felt impossible.

But he didn’t say it like a prediction. He said it like a fact.

That’s the thing about Dr. Tibary. He sees beyond the present moment. He sees potential before it blooms.

That passing comment — spoken in an elevator — stayed with me. It followed me through cases and conferences, setbacks and small victories. It lit a path I didn’t yet know I was on.

In 2017, I stood at the podium as President of the Society for Theriogenology — the very role he saw in me a decade earlier. As I looked out across the room filled with colleagues and friends, I thought of him. I thought of that elevator. And I thought of the power of belief.

Dr. Tibary didn’t just teach me theriogenology. He taught me how to see — not just what’s in front of me, but what’s within me.

Over the years, I’ve had the privilege of walking beside him — in lecture halls, clinics, and conference corridors from the Palouse to St. Louis. Listening. Learning. Laughing. (And make no mistake — Dr. Tibary is funny. Quietly. Brilliantly. He once told me camels were “designed by committee,” and I’ve never looked at them the same way since.)

Beyond traditional theriogenology, his mentorship helped me push into new frontiers. With his encouragement and technical insight, I developed assisted reproduction protocols for reindeer, white tailed deer, mule deer, water buffalo, and even bighorn sheep. These ventures were anything but straightforward — but he approached each challenge with curiosity and scientific rigor, never once treating these unconventional patients as anything less than worthy of our best efforts. His guidance gave me both the confidence and the competence to explore multispecies reproduction.

Someday, I hope I can be to someone else what Dr. Tibary has been to me. That, I believe, is the greatest tribute a mentor can receive — not just admiration, but continuation.

Thank you, Dr. Tibary. For your brilliance. For your kindness. For your quiet confidence in what I could become.

You believed in me.

And that made all the difference.

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