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

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.