01/10/2025
This really resonated with me...it is so amazing when these amazing animals come into the world while everyone else is sleeping!
We are so grateful for our amazing vets at Hermann Vet Clinic and Hometown!
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
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