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Mountain West Animal Hospital

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Mountain West Animal Hospital

Mountain West Animal Hospital is a full service veterinary facility in Springville, UT. We have been serving our local community for nearly 40 years.

Mountain West Hospital is a full service veterinary facility located in Springville, Utah. We understand the unique relationship you have with your pets. You can trust that your pets will receive the best care possible while at Mountain West Animal Hospital. Our mission is to provide the best possible veterinary care for our patients by maintaining and utilizing state of the art facilities and equ

ipment, and by employing and developing a well-trained competent and caring staff. We are dedicated to providing friendly, compassionate service to our clients in an atmosphere of professionalism, respect and concern. We advocate community and client responsibility in improving the welfare of animals. We seek to be a positive, contributing influence within the community we serve. At Mountain West Animal Hospital, we value life. We are advocates for those who have no voice. We believe that all animals have the right to a life free of pain and suffering. Everything we do is centered on this principle. We strive to provide the care that pets need and deserve.

02/04/2025

My Take Tuesday: Two Star Belle

There is something truly magical about the excitement of a young child. They bounce, they pounce, they squeal, and they run with boundless energy. Their joy is contagious, spreading to anyone nearby, forcing even the most stoic among us to smile.

I remember a day when I was four years old, standing at the window, heart pounding with anticipation. Dad was on his way home from work, but tonight was different—tonight, he had promised a surprise for my brothers, Daniel and Caleb, and me. As his green Nova turned onto 100 East and slowly rolled into our driveway, we couldn’t contain ourselves. The front door burst open as we sprinted toward the car, shrieking with excitement.

Then, out jumped the cutest German Shorthaired Pointer puppy I had ever seen. She was a deep, rich brown, flecked with white throughout her coat. But her most striking feature was the two white, star-shaped markings perfectly placed on her forehead. Her name was Two Star Belle.

For the next 13 years, Belle wasn’t just a pet—she was family. She rode with us to the farm to feed the cows, raced alongside us as we sledded through the snow, and stood guard whenever danger lurked too close. She was our constant companion and fierce protector.

But Belle was more than just a loyal friend; she was an extraordinary bird dog. When she found a pheasant, she would freeze—motionless, poised, and patient. We often spent hours searching for her, only to find her locked in a perfect point, unwavering in her focus. She was incredible.

Then came the day I first experienced the heartbreak of losing a beloved four-legged family member. I still remember it vividly. We wrapped Belle’s body in a blanket and buried her beneath a cottonwood tree on our farm—the place she loved most. As we lowered her into the ground, I did what my heart demanded—I sat down and wept.

Losing a pet is not something you simply “get over.” Yet, in our society, there is often an unspoken expectation to grieve animals differently than we do humans. But the truth is, the bond between a person and their pet is often just as deep—sometimes even deeper—than the connections we share with other people.

Reflecting on Belle’s life reminds me of the sting of loss. It hurts. But from that pain emerges a greater capacity to love. Somehow, animals teach us character, loyalty, and devotion in ways we humans often fail to teach one another.

There is something undeniably miraculous about the human-animal bond. Dogs, in particular, possess an extraordinary ability to sense our emotions and respond with unwavering love and support. Their presence is healing. Studies have even confirmed what pet owners already know—owning a dog can lower stress, reduce the risk of heart disease, and even increase longevity. Elderly pet owners, for instance, visit their doctors 30% less frequently than those without pets.

One reason for this profound effect is that animals fulfill one of our most basic human needs—touch. Research shows that even hardened criminals experience long-term behavioral changes after working with animals, often forming their first-ever bonds of mutual affection. Simply petting, hugging, or interacting with a loving animal can bring immediate comfort and calm. Pets ease loneliness, encourage exercise, and, in turn, boost mental well-being.

Children, too, benefit immensely from having pets. Beyond companionship, animals provide opportunities for learning—teaching responsibility, perseverance, and even social skills. There is an unparalleled joy in training a pet, witnessing their progress, and celebrating small victories.

The world would be a better place if everyone, even for just a brief moment, could experience the pure and immense joy that animals bring.

I’m grateful I learned this lesson as a young child in Castle Dale, Utah. Belle will always hold a special place in my heart, and I will cherish her memory forever.

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

01/30/2025

Theriogenology Thursday: An ostrich egg, at 3.3 pounds is the largest egg on our planet. It is about the size of a medium cantaloupe. For comparison, the smallest bird egg is the bee hummingbird. You could put 4700 hummingbird eggs inside one ostrich egg!
However, when comparing egg size to the body size of the bird that produces the egg, ostrich eggs are among the smallest and hummingbird eggs are the largest.

01/28/2025

My Take Tuesday: The Belligerent Bovine

January in Utah is a striking season. The landscape is blanketed in white—snow-covered peaks, rooftops, and fields blending into a serene, colorless canvas. A profound stillness settles over the land, as if the world itself is at rest. But then, without warning, winter reclaims her dominion with biting blizzards, disrupting the peace and tightening her icy grip.

It was on one such frigid morning that I stepped out my front door into air so cold it burned my face. At twenty below zero, each breath stung my nostrils. Yet, amidst the harshness, Utah’s January nights hold a quiet beauty. Driving to emergency calls in the dead of night, with only the hum of the engine and the glow of headlights cutting through the darkness, I find rare moments of solitude. In those brief windows, I can pause, reflect, and cherish the stillness that my busy life seldom allows.

That night’s call was for a Hereford cow with a laceration. She had somehow tangled herself in a barbed wire fence, leaving a gaping wound that oozed fresh blood. As I approached the squeeze chute, the crimson drops fell onto the snow, creating vivid streaks that steamed faintly in the freezing air.

It was clear she needed sutures.
Few tasks test a veterinarian’s grit quite like suturing in subzero temperatures. It’s an exercise in patience, endurance, and sheer determination.

Opening my supply box, I found most of the drugs frozen solid. Thankfully, the lidocaine was still liquid. Drawing it into a large syringe, I injected the anesthetic around the wound’s edges. The old cow bellowed, her frustration and discomfort evident.

With numb, stiff fingers, I began placing sutures in a simple interrupted pattern. Between each stitch, I paused to flex my hands, hoping to restore some dexterity. Exhaling warm air onto them only worsened the chill. The cold was unrelenting, but I pressed on, determined to finish the job.

As I secured the final suture, the cow lunged forward, slamming her massive belly against the chute and pinning my hand. A sharp pain shot up my arm as I je**ed my fingers free, wincing from the sudden jolt.

“Alright,” I said, stepping back, “turn her loose. We’re done.”

The moment the head gate opened, the Hereford burst out of the chute, bellowing and swinging her head in wild protest. She charged forward about twenty yards before stopping abruptly. Then, to my dismay, she turned and locked eyes on me.

Trouble.

Quickly grabbing my tools, I ran for the fence. Behind me, 1,800 pounds of furious bovine thundered in pursuit. Her bellows filled the frozen air, and I could feel the vibration of her hooves pounding the ground.

I didn’t dare look back as I scrambled over the lodgepole pine fence surrounding the corral. Just as I swung my leg over, she skidded to a stop on the other side, her head low and nostrils flaring. She stared at me, bewildered, as if questioning how I had escaped her wrath.

My heart hammered in my chest, adrenaline coursing through me as I caught my breath. That was one angry cow.

Once I was safely back in my truck, the throbbing in my squished hand returned with a vengeance. Still, I was grateful—grateful to leave the belligerent bovine far behind. As I drove away on the frozen highway, I couldn’t help but think back to my days at Washington State University’s veterinary school. In the large animal section of the teaching hospital, there was a magnetic sign that read:

“Fractious cow can make it to the gate in 2.5 seconds. Can you?”

It would’ve been the perfect sign for that squeeze chute on that Utah County farm.

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

01/24/2025

Theriogenology Thursday: When a female grizzly becomes pregnant, the development of the embryo temporarily stops for several months, a process called “delayed implantation”. Delayed implantation is characteristic of all bear species and some other families of carnivores, including weasels and seals. If a female bear is unable to gain enough weight during the summer and fall, her body will tell her to not proceed with the pregnancy and the embryo will reabsorb. This gives her a head start on gaining enough weight to have a successful pregnancy the following year. When female grizzlies enter hibernation, the embryo implants in her uterus and begins gestation. In January or February, female grizzly bears give birth to 1-4 cubs (usually 2). The female will care for her young inside the den until spring when they finally step out into the world.

01/21/2025

My Take Tuesday: The Adroit Veterinarian

A few years ago, I had the privilege of visiting a small animal shelter in Cuautla, Mexico. In rural areas like this, unclaimed pets roam the streets, often fending for themselves in harsh conditions. Yet, this humble shelter stood as a beacon of hope, providing care, compassion, and sanctuary to countless animals in need.

The journey there remains etched in my memory. Our rickety micro-bus rattled along dusty, winding roads framed by vibrant green fields and trees, nature’s quiet testament to the beauty of this remote region. As we passed a modest panadería, the air was saturated with the warm, inviting aroma of freshly baked bread, churros, and pastries. This momentary sweetness was a stark contrast to the sobering reality we were traveling toward.

When we arrived, a large chain-link fence separated the shelter from the outside world. Within its borders stretched a serene refuge: rows of modest buildings and kennels nestled among meticulously groomed lawns. This was no ordinary shelter; it was a sanctuary, a place where lives—both human and animal—found renewal.

As I stepped out of the vehicle, my attention was drawn to a dog bounding across the grass with unrestrained joy. A custom-made wheelchair supported its paralyzed hind legs, allowing it to move freely, carefree and alive. Watching this remarkable creature revel in its newfound freedom filled me with a profound sense of gratitude. I knew I had arrived somewhere extraordinary.

On this particular day, my role was to assist in spaying ten dogs residing at the shelter. However, as I entered the surgery suite, my confidence wavered. The room was stark and dim, its dark brown cement walls reflecting none of the light streaming through a single north-facing window. Electricity, a convenience I had taken for granted, was absent.

Doubt surged. How can I perform surgery without proper lighting or modern tools? How can I even see what I’m doing? For a moment, I felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the challenge before me.

In modern veterinary medicine, technology provides the foundation for precision and safety. Electronic monitors track every vital sign—blood pressure, oxygen saturation, heart rate. Anesthetic gases such as Isoflurane and Sevoflurane ensure smooth recoveries. Adjustable surgical lights illuminate the tiniest details. Here, none of these luxuries existed.

As I prepared to begin, the hurdles multiplied. The only surgical gown available barely fit my 6’2” frame, and the size 6.5 latex gloves constricted my hands, exacerbating my worry about a severe latex allergy. The stainless-steel surgical table was fixed at a height that forced me to hunch awkwardly, while monitoring relied solely on the rhythmic sound of a stethoscope. Anesthesia consisted solely of injectable drugs.

I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and reassured myself: You can do this. Trust your training. Trust your judgment.

With a bead of sweat tracing its path down my forehead, I made the first incision. Anxiety gave way to focus as I leaned into my skills, relying on intuition and experience. One by one, each surgery was completed successfully. Despite the lack of modern conveniences, every patient recovered without complications.

This experience was a humbling reminder of how much I depend on the technological marvels of my daily practice at Mountain West Animal Hospital. Digital radiology, advanced monitoring systems, and precision surgical tools have become staples of modern veterinary care. Yet, that day in Cuautla taught me an invaluable lesson: the heart of veterinary medicine is not technology—it is adaptability, resourcefulness, and unwavering dedication to the animals we serve.

As I left the shelter that evening, a wave of relief and pride washed over me. This experience had challenged me, tested me, and ultimately transformed me. It became the defining moment in my career, teaching me that true excellence transcends circumstance. A skilled veterinarian can deliver exceptional care, whether in a cutting-edge facility or a dimly lit cement room without electricity.

The methods may differ, but the mission remains constant: to heal, to comfort, to serve.

I will forever be grateful for the lessons learned at that tranquil sanctuary in Cuautla, Mexico.

And that is my take.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Here I am pictured before the first surgery. The ill-fitting gloves and gown tell the story of the challenges ahead, but behind the surgical mask lies a nervous smile and a heart filled with determination.

01/14/2025

My Take Tuesday: Why did you become a veterinarian?

“Why did you become a veterinarian?” I receive this question on a regular basis. While many veterinarians recall a lifelong ambition to enter the field, my journey took a different path. Although I always had a deep affection for animals, it wasn’t until I turned 21 that I chose to pursue veterinary medicine.

Growing up on a small farm in Castle Dale, Utah, my earliest responsibilities included feeding chickens and gathering eggs, tasks I began at the age of six. Each year, we eagerly awaited the arrival of baby chicks from Murray McMurray Hatchery, their delivery at the post office akin to Christmas morning. My father allowed each of us to select a chick to call our own; I always named mine. Through these chickens, I first experienced the profound human-animal bond. I cherished each one, rejoiced when they began laying eggs, and mourned their eventual passing. Chickens became my favorite animal during childhood, a sentiment that endures to this day.

Despite a childhood surrounded by animals, I hadn’t seriously considered becoming a veterinarian. In high school, an aptitude test suggested I wouldn’t excel in the profession due to my extroverted nature, implying that introversion was a key trait for veterinary success. Trusting the test’s accuracy, I dismissed the idea and contemplated a career in law.

After high school, I spent two years in Peru, immersing myself in a vastly different culture and achieving fluency in Spanish. One day in Casma, I witnessed a group of men castrating a bull by beating its testicles with a large stick—a brutal method that left me feeling deep sympathy for the animal. That night, I pondered their reasons and realized they might not know of a more humane approach. Determined to make a difference, I resolved to educate these farmers on better animal husbandry practices.

My first patient was Walter, a pet pig in Casma with a challenging disposition, whose owners sought castration. With supplies from my friend Duilio Davelos’s pharmacy—lidocaine, suture, iodine, and alcohol—I performed the procedure successfully. Walter’s swift recovery led to word spreading, and soon I spent my Mondays castrating pigs for local farmers, who were receptive to learning new methods. The supplies were affordable, and my service was free.

Next, I applied my childhood experience with chickens to teach basic poultry care and assist in building incubators to boost production. I also began working with llama and alpaca herds. Other missionaries joined these efforts; notably, a human dermatologist from Provo, Utah, had his first surgical experience castrating pigs near Trujillo, Peru. Helping people by improving their animals’ well-being was immensely fulfilling. Introducing local anesthetics and proper surgical preparation reduced post-operative infections, enhancing both animal welfare and farmers’ livelihoods.

As my time in Peru concluded, I reflected on these experiences during the flight home. High above the ground, I decided to become a veterinarian. Upon returning to Utah, I promptly enrolled in college, and after eight and a half years of rigorous study, I achieved my goal.

Looking back, I am grateful for my agricultural upbringing, which unknowingly prepared me for this path. Life’s events often seem random, but in retrospect, the connections become clear. I’m thankful for the opportunity to provide animal care in a distant place, an experience that led me to the remarkable career I enjoy today. I cannot imagine doing anything else.

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

01/07/2025

My Take Tuesday: Late Night Call

The phone rang sharply at 2:03 a.m., breaking the stillness of the night. Groggily, I swung my legs out of bed and grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

Calls like this are all too familiar. Emergencies seem to favor the early hours, as if animals know to wait until the rest of the world is sound asleep.

“Hey, Doc, can you come out to my place?”

“What’s going on?” I asked, blinking the sleep from my eyes.

“It’s one of my ewes,” he said, his voice edged with urgency. “She’s got five hooves sticking out of her backside!”

“I’ll be there shortly,” I replied, already pulling on warm clothes. Calls like this always seem to come in January, when the thermometer stubbornly hovers below zero.

I started my truck and headed out into the frosty darkness.

Mr. Johnson, the caller, has been a client for years. A skilled and resourceful sheep farmer, he knows his way around most situations. He calls me only when it’s truly necessary. Farmers like him are becoming rarer every year, as large corporations continue to push small, independent operations out of the industry.

These changes threaten not just farmers but also the heart of what I love most about veterinary medicine: the personal connection. Helping people like Mr. Johnson—who pour their lives into their animals—is what makes this work so rewarding.

When I reached the Johnson ranch, my headlights caught the weathered barn, its patched and missing slats a testament to its age. By day, it’s a familiar sight for travelers along I-15, a humble monument to Utah’s rural heritage.

Inside, the barn was quiet except for the soft rustling of straw. Mr. Johnson greeted me at the door, his breath misting in the frigid air.

“Doc, Hazel’s making hot chocolate for you,” he said warmly. “Thanks for coming out in the middle of the night.”

He led me to the ewe, who was clearly in distress. Her eyes were wide with exhaustion, and five tiny hooves protruded awkwardly from her back end.

Kneeling beside her, I got to work. A trick I’d learned during a trip to Auburn University came to mind: a small dose of epinephrine administered intravenously would relax her uterus. It worked like a charm.

With steady hands, I pushed the hooves back inside and began carefully sorting through the tangle of limbs. After a moment, I felt a head, then a tail, then another head.

“Well, we’ve got at least three in here,” I said, glancing at Mr. Johnson, who stood anxiously nearby.

One by one, I delivered the lambs. The first, a large, jet-black buck, weighed nearly 18 pounds. The second and third, smaller ewes, were light in color and quick to move. Just as I thought the work was done, I felt another little body.

“Four!” I exclaimed, gently pulling the final lamb—a tiny buck—into the world.

All four lambs survived the delivery, their fragile bodies trembling as they took their first breaths. Hazel and Mr. Johnson worked quickly, rubbing them down with warm towels and coaxing them to breathe.

“We’ve never had four at once!” Hazel said, her voice full of wonder. “Looks like we’ll be bottle-feeding for a while.”

With the lambs nestled in the straw beside their mother, I finally accepted the hot chocolate Hazel had made. I watched as the lambs, wobbly and unsteady, took their first steps.

After making sure everyone was stable, I thanked the Johnsons and headed back to my truck. As I drove away, my headlights swept across the barn and onto the snow-covered tree line. A bare tree stood stark against the darkness, its branches coated in ice that glittered like crystal in the light. The barbed wire fences shimmered with frost, stretching endlessly into the stillness of the winter night.

In that moment, I paused, struck by the quiet beauty of it all. Here, in this simple, aging barn, was a scene of life, perseverance, and grace—a reminder of how profound the ordinary can be.

Driving home, I reflected on the privilege of my work. While the world sleeps, I get to bring life into it, witness resilience, and be part of something far greater than myself.

In a world consumed by chasing “more,” I’m reminded that true contentment lies in freedom — freedom to imagine, to serve, to cherish the journey. And for me, the journey of being a veterinarian is the greatest reward of all.

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

12/31/2024

December’s End

As this month’s series of Facebook posts on reindeer concludes, I hope you’ve gained a deeper appreciation for this extraordinary species. Over 100,000 people have followed these posts in December, discovering the wonders and challenges reindeer face in today’s world.

When we think of reindeer and caribou, we often imagine vast herds migrating across the endless tundra of the holo-Arctic regions. Yet few are aware of the South Selkirk caribou—a herd that, for thousands of years, migrated across the southern Canadian border into Washington and Idaho.

Sadly, this herd—the last wild caribou in the contiguous United States—is now on the brink of extinction. Once part of a thriving population of southern mountain caribou spanning the Pacific Northwest, the South Selkirk herd has been decimated by habitat loss and human activity.

In 2009, the herd numbered about 50, living in a habitat stretching from British Columbia to Washington and Idaho. By 2016, their numbers had dropped to just 12, despite decades of conservation efforts. By 2018, only three animals remained, and the following year, a single female was all that was left.

Today, urgent measures are being taken to protect this lone survivor and to restore what was once a robust and vital herd.

As humans, we are but one of millions of species inhabiting this planet. Each species—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant—is a masterpiece of nature, a vital thread in the tapestry of life. Every one of them is worth saving.

N. Isaac Bott, DVM

12/30/2024

The Magdalenian culture is represented by numerous archaeological sites across Northern Europe, whose contents show progress in arts and culture. This time period was characterized by a cold and dry climate, humans in association with reindeer, and the extinction of the mammoth.

Numerous carvings of reindeer tell the history of this culture and their dependence on reindeer antler for the production of spears and perforated batons. This antler carving was made 12,000-17,000 years ago, toward the end of the last ice age.

The lifted tail, drawn-in stomach, wide-open nostrils, swollen neck and fully-grown antlers tell us that the reindeer engraved on this baton is a male during the rut, and not an animal butting something, which a superficial reading might suggest.

Source: (https://www.prehistoire.org/offres/doc_inline_src/515/F_Braun_rgb.pdf)

12/30/2024

I am amazed daily as I see the growth of the reindeer calves born each spring. The calves are born weighing around 12 pounds. By December, they weigh well over 150 pounds and their size approximates that of their mothers.
How do reindeer grow so fast? The answer is in the milk.
Reindeer milk is very high in fat compared to milk from other domestic species. A Jersey cow, known for its high butterfat content, only has about 4% milk fat. Reindeer milk registers at a whopping 24% milk fat! They rank first in fat content among milk consumed by humans. Yes, people do consume reindeer milk in certain parts of the world.
As you can imagine, it takes two people to milk a reindeer, one to wrestle with the antlers and the other to do the milking. The whole operation is extremely labor intensive, with not much milk produced.
Other milks that are high in overall fat are not consumed by humans. These include gray seal milk, with 53.2 percent fat, whale milk, with 34.8 percent fat, and polar bear milk with 31 percent fat. Other high-fat animal milks include rabbit, rat, deer, dolphin and elephant, all of which have between 10 and 20 percent fat content.
Clearly, fat content varies depending on the needs of the offspring of each individual species. I find it fascinating to learn about these differences.
Does Santa Claus drink reindeer milk? If he’s a fit Santa, he probably does. With such a high fat content and just 2.4 percent milk sugar, on paper it is a perfect fit for low-carb fitness buffs. As for Santa's reindeer, it’s no wonder they turned out smart enough to find every house in the world without stopping for directions.
I still haven't been brave enough to try reindeer milk. Maybe someday....

12/29/2024

Reindeer love this time of year! In winter, the hair of a reindeer's hide is multi-colored. The mane is white. The underbelly, rump, legs, and face are generally dark brown and the shoulders and ribs are light tan. In summer when the long guard hairs fall out and the soft fine 'downy' hairs are exposed, the reindeer appear dark colored (with white 'socks'). When considering the colors in the vegetation, snow, and on the hills and mountains in the background, it is thought that the reindeer's hair color serves to conceal them from predators.

12/28/2024

Just recently, researchers at University College London discovered reindeer are among the few mammals that can see ultraviolet light. While human vision cuts off at wavelengths around 400 nm, reindeers can see up to 320 nm. This range covers the part of the spectrum we can see with the help of a black light, but it is still enough to help reindeer see things in the glowing white of the Arctic that they would otherwise miss. Things like white fur and urine are difficult, even impossible, for humans to see in the snow, but for reindeer, they show up in high contrast.

12/27/2024

Reindeer are much more sedentary than caribou. While they do exhibit seasonal grazing patterns, their movements remain primarily within a well established home range. Reindeer tend to have a more robust body shape, with shorter legs and a flatter face. When herded, reindeer gather together into a cohesive unit instead of spreading out. It is interesting to note that just one or two caribou in a reindeer herd will cause the entire herd to behave more erratically and scatter.

12/26/2024

Theriogenology Thursday: Retention of antlers in pregnant cows has long been a technique of wildlife biologists to assess pregnancy status in wild caribou. In reindeer, it is not always a reliable predictor of pregnancy. Antler retention into mid-April can be used to infer pregnancy, although the contrary is not true. A portion of pregnant females often cast their antlers prior to calving.

12/26/2024

Reindeer first arrived in Alaska in 1892 by boat. Unlike their wild caribou cousins, they did not cross the land bridge. They were shipped from Siberia. Their peak populations reached 640,000 animals during the 1930’s. Only 20,000 live in Alaska today. Pictured is an Alaska reindeer herd circa 1920.

12/26/2024

The Christmas Cactus

I never had the privilege of meeting my paternal grandmother, Caroline Westover Bott. She passed away several years before I was born, leaving behind only stories of her quick wit, gentle humor, and unfailing kindness. How I wish I could have known her, to see for myself the remarkable woman who lives on in the memories of my family.

One of the enduring symbols of her life is a simple yet extraordinary plant: the Christmas cactus. For much of the year, this plant is modest in its appearance, its segmented green stems sitting quietly in the corner of a room, easy to overlook. But as the Christmas season approaches, something miraculous occurs.

With attentive care, this humble plant bursts into life, adorning itself with vibrant pink blossoms that seem to echo the joy and warmth of the holiday season. It is this seasonal transformation that has made the Christmas cactus a treasured presence in homes across Europe and North America, a tradition as enduring as the season itself.

After my grandmother passed away, her beloved Christmas cactus became a living legacy, tended faithfully by her husband and children. This plant is unlike many common houseplants. Despite its name, the Christmas cactus does not hail from arid deserts but from the tropical rainforests of South America. Its care requires an understanding touch: cool autumn nights of 50 to 55 degrees and a carefully balanced dance of light and darkness to coax its blossoms into their festive display.

For years, my Uncle Jerry took on the role of its devoted caretaker. Under his watchful eye, the plant flourished, blooming reliably year after year, a quiet yet radiant tribute to the memory of my grandmother. When he passed away two years ago, we lost not only a beloved family member but also the steward of this precious heirloom.

Some of my fondest Christmas memories are intertwined with this remarkable plant. I remember sitting near its blossoms on Christmas morning, the air filled with the rustle of wrapping paper and the laughter of loved ones. Those moments—simple yet profound—remain etched in my heart, a reminder of the beauty found in togetherness.

One of the most remarkable qualities of the Christmas cactus is its ability to propagate. From a cutting of just three stem segments planted in soil—preferably taken from the original pot—a new plant can take root. With time and care, it grows, carrying forward not just its own life but the legacy of the plant that came before it.

A few years before Uncle Jerry’s passing, he gave me a small transplant of this cherished cactus. This season, as it blooms brilliantly in my own home, I find myself thinking of those who came before me—those whose love and care allowed this tradition to endure. I miss them deeply, but I am grateful for this living connection to them.

This plant is more than just a holiday decoration. It is a symbol of resilience, a bridge between generations, and a reminder of the love that binds our family together. I cherish my Christmas cactus and the traditions it represents. It is a tangible legacy, one I hope to nurture and one day pass down to my children.

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

Address

410 S 450 W
Springville, UT
84663

Opening Hours

Monday	8am - 12pm
	1pm - 5pm
Tuesday	8am - 12pm
	1pm - 5pm
Wednesday	8am - 12pm
	1pm - 5pm
Thursday	8am - 12pm
	1pm - 5pm
Friday	8am - 12pm
	1pm - 5pm
Saturday	9am - 1pm

Telephone

+18014899676

Website

https://mountainwestanimalhospital.org/

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Videos

Adult reindeer can run (for short distances) up to 50 miles per hour (80 kilometers per hour). I recorded this video this morning. These girls must be warming up for something BIG!

Reindeer lips

Reindeer smack their lips when they eat. Sven is pretty adorable when he eats breakfast!!!!

Reindeer Games

Reindeer calves are precocious. They stand within an hour after birth and learn to run shortly thereafter. In this video, LumaLee, a female calf born this spring at Mountain West Animal Hospital, shows us what reindeer games look like. She is less than 24 hours old in this video.

Reindeer grunt

Reindeer communicate through a series of grunts. Sven, our oldest resident reindeer gives us a robust grunt in this video.

My Take Tuesday: The Macabre Mite As a veterinarian, I see and treat a variety of pet diseases. Skin diseases are very common at my practice. Some of these skin conditions are caused by parasites. I recently diagnosed a pet with a condition called sarcoptic mange. Sarcoptic mange is caused by a parasitic mite (Sarcoptes scabiei) that burrows just beneath the surface of the skin. Sarcoptes scabiei mites bury into the skin of healthy adult dogs and puppies and feed on material in and on the skin. Sarcoptic mange is also known as scabies and is zoonotic, which means it is transmissible from pets to people. Mites are distant relatives of ticks, spiders, scorpions and other arachnids. Over 48,000 species have been described. Sarcoptic mange (scabies) is an infectious and contagious type of mange mite often picked up from other dogs or unclean environments. Symptoms of sarcoptic mange may include intense itching, scabbing and hair loss of most commonly thinly haired areas of the coat such as the ears, elbows, legs and abdomen. While diagnosis is made by performing a skin scrape, these mites are often difficult to find. However, when I see them, they are unforgettable. I imagine that many horror movies were inspired by staring at this mite under a microscope. Even though we see it commonly, seeing it under a microscope makes me itch. A lot. Just writing about it makes my scalp and arms itch. Watch this short video clip. Does this not make you itch? And that is my take! N. Isaac Bott, DVM

Reindeer Grunting

Reindeer communicate through a series of unique grunts. Here is a short clip of Sven saying what I assume translates to, “Where is my food?”

Merry Christmas

Preparations have begun for tonight’s long flight!

Reindeer birth occurs in three stages. During the first stage, cervical dilation occurs. Often, a female will be anxious during this phase. She may separate herself from the herd. It lasts from 12-24 hours. The second stage is expulsion of the fetus. This occurs rapidly (15-30 minutes). The third stage is passing of the placenta. It typically occurs within 1-12 hours following birth. In this short video, Flower, one of our resident females gives birth to a healthy baby girl.

Clicking

Reindeer make a clicking sound when they walk, and not just when up on a housetop. Tendons snap over sesamoid bones in their feet, and that's what makes the click. Experts think the clicking helps the members of a herd stay in contact, especially in snowstorms or, say, when it's foggy. Listen closely to this video. Apart from the vocalization (grunting), a distinct click is heard with each footstep.

Reindeer Eating Breakfast

Reindeer smack their lips when they eat. Sven is pretty adorable when he eats breakfast!!!!

Dr. Bott discusses some of the challenges with reindeer herd health and reproduction.

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