DocBott

My Take Tuesday: Hazel and the Skunk

As a teenager growing up in the small town of Castle Dale, I looked forward to summer at the end of each school year. Summer meant freedom—from homework and from sitting at a school desk.

For me, a perfect summer day included vanilla ice cream, snow cones, and strawberry shortcake. Tranquil Castle Valley evenings offered frequent opportunities to grill hot dogs, hamburgers, and steaks, alongside corn on the cob and thick slices of juicy Green River watermelon.

Summertime also meant hard work. In addition to irrigation and farm chores, several elderly widows in Castle Dale would hire my siblings and me to mow their lawns each week.

Hazel was my favorite.

Her small house stood just north of the new recreation center. She felt like family to me. Her friendliness and kindness were evident every time I mowed her lawn.
Though modest in size, her yard was lush and carefully maintained. Along the south side of the property, tall trees stood like sentinels, shielding the house from the persistent Castle Valley wind. Beneath their deep green canopy lay a perfectly manicured garden, with neat rows of Swiss chard, chives, radishes, peas, carrots, spinach, and lettuce.

Her lawn was also difficult to mow. Flowers and bushes demanded precision with the mower and edger. Despite my best efforts, I would occasionally graze her chives, and the unmistakable onion scent would immediately betray me.

“Oh no—you hit my chives!” she would say.

I suspect she planted extra each year, knowing a few would inevitably fall victim to my mower.

After finishing, Hazel would bring out red punch and cookies. I would sit on her living room couch, enjoying the refreshments week after week. She would ask about my life and share stories of her Seely and Livingston pioneer ancestors who helped settle Utah and build the Salt Lake Temple.

Hazel loved cats. A small door in her kitchen led to the backyard, allowing them to come and go freely. A large bowl of cat food sat in the center of the kitchen for any passing feline.

One day, Hazel mentioned how quickly the food was disappearing. She had been refilling the bowl three or four times a day, only to find it empty each time she returned.

As I sat on the couch with a clear view into the kitchen, I noticed movement near the bowl. I turned to look.

The largest skunk I had ever seen waddled up and began gorging itself.

“Hazel!” I shouted. “That’s not a cat—that’s a big, fat, humongous skunk!”

“My laws!” she gasped. “Get it out of here!”

I jumped up, and the startled skunk made a dash for the door. Its considerable girth prevented anything resembling speed. Its belly nearly dragged along the floor as it lumbered away.

When it reached the cat door, the front half slipped through easily. The back half did not.

As the animal forced itself through, it simultaneously unleashed a voluminous spray from its scent glands—in my direction. The blast filled the entire kitchen instantly.

If you’ve never experienced skunk spray up close, it is unforgettable—a thick, oily, sulfurous assault on the senses. There is nothing worse than having that smell inside your nose.

Hazel and I quickly retreated out the front door. We propped open the kitchen door and set a fan on the floor to air out the house.
Then we laughed—hard—for hours.

Hazel passed away shortly after Memorial Day in 2003. I miss her dearly.

Each summer still brings back fond memories of Hazel, that obese skunk, and the all-you-can-eat Mephitis buffet.

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

My Take Tuesday: When the Pavement Burns

I love summertime.

I love the smell of campfire smoke clinging to a hoodie after a night beneath a sky full of stars. I love the thunder of hooves at the rodeo, the twang of a guitar drifting across a county fairground, and the gentle splash of a fishing line breaking the surface of still water. I love that people seem to smile a little more in June and July. Maybe it is the sunshine. Maybe it is the way backyard barbecues, family reunions, and long evenings somehow bring us all a little closer together.

Summer has always felt like a season of freedom.

But as a veterinarian, I have learned that summer also carries a shadow.
Every year, I see it arrive at the clinic door.

It comes in the form of panting, trembling dogs whose bodies have become furnaces they can no longer cool. Their tongues are bright red. Their eyes are glazed. Their hearts race desperately beneath coats that trap heat they cannot escape. Heat stroke does not knock politely. It barges in without warning.

And it does not just claim the old or the frail. It takes the healthy, the young, and the energetic. The dog who was "only going to be in the truck for a minute."
The dog who chased the ball one throw too many.

I will never forget a black Labrador brought to me after a family barbecue. Earlier that afternoon, he had been the life of the party—running with the kids, stealing hot dogs from the edge of the grill, tail wagging nonstop. He was doing exactly what Labradors do best: enjoying every second of life.

Until he wasn't.

By the time his family carried him into the clinic, he was already slipping away. His temperature was 107 degrees. Despite every effort, we could not save him.
That is one of the heartbreaking things about dogs.

They love too hard and quit too late.

They will keep running long after their bodies are begging them to stop. They will keep following you, chasing the ball, hiking the trail, and soaking up every moment of your attention. They do not complain. They do not ask for a break.

And sometimes, by the time they show us they are in trouble, it is already too late.

So here is my summertime plea.
If the pavement is too hot for your bare feet, it is too hot for their paws.
If it is too hot for you to sit comfortably in a parked vehicle with the windows cracked, it is too hot for them—even for "just a minute."

If your dog is panting heavily, drooling excessively, slowing down, stumbling, vomiting, or acting confused, pay attention. Stop the activity. Find shade. Offer cool water. Begin cooling them and seek veterinary care immediately.

And do not let a few clouds or a gentle breeze fool you. Utah heat has a way of sneaking up on both people and pets.

I want your dogs to enjoy summer just as much as you do. I want them at the fishing hole, wagging their tails beside the campfire, or curled up on the porch after a day at the lake. But I also want them alive. Safe. With you.

So, when the thermometer climbs and the pavement begins to burn, be their voice. Be their common sense. Be their protector when they are simply too happy to know better.

There is nothing better than summertime.

Let's make sure everyone gets to enjoy it.

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