An Anchorage family confronts the hardest responsibility pet owners face, with clarity, grief and care.
A hiker walks with their dog on Blueberry Hill near the Glen Alps trailhead of Chugach State Park on Dec. 21, 2023. Only days after a sudden, fatal illness struck our dog, we had her euthanized. Kathleen found a vet who would come to our house to administer the powerful drug that would end Kiska’s life.
We were familiar with this process. Eleven and a half years earlier, we had our dog, Clare, put down because she was suffering from debilitating arthritis in her hips. We had chosen to have it done at home to avoid bringing Clare to a clinic, something she hated. Kathleen soon found a vet who would oblige us. He sat at our kitchen table, calm, congenial and all business. Before Clare realized what was happening, he poked her in the rump, delivering a sedative. Clare yelped but I had a treat ready. Before the drug put her into a coma, she eagerly took the treat over to a favorite area rug and dropped down to savor it. She never got the chance. She was soon out, her chin on the rug, eyes closed. We fixed a blanket beneath her so that, afterward, we could carry her out to the car together instead of her body drooping out of my arms. The vet brought over his case and sat down on a nearby chair. He got the syringe ready, filling it with pentobarbital sodium in a concentrated overdose quantity that cuts off brain function and stops the heart. I knelt by the blanket. We were all gathered around Clare. The doctor leveled the needle through the skin of a foreleg and pressed the plunger. There was no response. I looked at Clare’s face and saw her upper lip puff out in a brief sigh. It was her last breath. I don’t remember now if the vet checked her heartbeat. But he said it was all over. “That’s how I want to go,” he said. What he said made sense, but it confused me. I wanted to think about Clare, not the vet, but if I thought about the vet, that meant I was thinking about us, about how Kathleen and I would each someday come to the same end, but maybe not by the same means. I knew the vet was right. This was indeed the way to die: oblivious, without pain. It was all too clear. A powerful medication had left no trace of life in our dog. And now it was Kiska’s turn. In only four days, after an acute episode of a tumor-centered internal bleeding that all but stopped her heart, she seemed to have aged years. She had been a fit 11-year-old Alaska husky mix, and now she could hardly get out of bed. Several of our friends who knew Kiska came over to say goodbye, to pet her as she lay exhausted. But not so exhausted that she could not take one final walk in the park in the hours before the arrangements we had made would end her life. We brought along our friend’s dog, Hickory, and walked for a quiet 30 minutes. I took still photos and video. Kiska walked slowly. Sometimes her tail was up and wagging. The change was dramatic. As usual, she was curious about the smells along the trail but was otherwise listless. We drove Hickory home and went home ourselves. I backed into our driveway as I had done a thousand times. The vet was expected in 30 minutes. I went around to the back of the Subaru, opened the hatchback and was prepared to lift Kiska out if she didn’t want to jump. But she would not get off her pad. She remained in a resting down position. She put up no resistance because she didn’t have to: I was never going to force her out. She showed no anxiety or irritation. Exhaustion and perhaps bewilderment were what I saw on her face. Never had this happened, where she wouldn’t leave the car and enter the house, her space. The vet arrived, parking her truck in our driveway. She and Kathleen went into the house to settle up paperwork and payment. Kiska remained in her resting down position, ears well back. She looked so frail, unsure but not afraid. I am reasonably certain that many dog owners believe about their pets what I saw in our dog then and had seen throughout her life: an essential dignity, a self-possession, if dogs can be said to have a self — something, incidentally, I do believe. Kathleen sat on the tail of the car and petted Kiska, and I took the last photos of her.The vet — her name is Kathy — walked over. We all stood close to the dog, arrayed to allow Kathy a clear space to administer the sedative. She said some dogs don’t like the first shot and she asked us to scratch Kiska’s ears. She grabbed the dog’s ruff and poked it. No reaction. We waited for sleep to come. Kiska lay her head down and was now curled up. Kathy went back to the truck. When she returned with the second syringe, all of us stood looking at the dog. Kiska seemed fully asleep. For no reason I can remember, I lifted her left front paw. Her eyes opened sleepily. She was not fully under. “That’s what I do to test if they’re asleep,” Kathy said. I kissed Kiska on her forehead and the bridge of her nose. I petted the top of her head, which pulled her eyes open. I was amazed at how they looked. They seemed to be rolling back in her head, but it was their color that struck me. It was about 3 p.m. in early November in Anchorage, so the sun was low but still shining, but not on our driveway on the north side of the house. We could see sunlight all around, but none fell on us. Kiska’s eyes had a brilliant orange-yellow glow. They were moist and flooded with light. The eyes of a deeply sedated animal then closed, and I moved back a few steps. Kathy had a razor and shaved a square inch of guard hair from Kiska’s right rear leg. She massaged the spot and, having found the vein she wanted, plunged in the medicine. We waited a few moments. I watched Kiska’s face, wondering if I’d see a last breath. I saw nothing except what I took to be a slight fluttering along the dog’s belly. Kathy put a stethoscope under Kiska’s body and said, “She’s gone.” Kathy lifted Kiska so I could remove the blanket beneath the pad and cover our dog with it. It was then clear to me that Kiska had no agency, no movement, had as much shape as a piece of cloth. It was an invisible passing from one state to another. You could hardly tell when exactly it happened, but it did. She was no longer our dog but something else.We were soon driving to the clinic where they would take Kiska’s body and truck it and other dead animals to a crematory in the Mat-Su. Two weeks later, her ashes came to us.is a former editor and reporter for the Anchorage Daily News. He taught in the English and creative writing departments at the University of Alaska Anchorage and coached the first Alaska teams to compete at the National Poetry Slam.The Anchorage Daily News welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, email
United States Latest News, United States Headlines
Similar News:You can also read news stories similar to this one that we have collected from other news sources.
Anchorage could see up to a foot of snow by Tuesday morningThe heaviest snowfall will likely be between 3 p.m. Monday and 3 a.m. Tuesday, according to the National Weather Service.
Read more »
Anchorage adopts law to help tenants displaced by unsafe housingA new municipal ordinance approved by the Anchorage Assembly creates a safety net for tenants who must leave their homes when code enforcement declares a building unsafe for habitation.
Read more »
Opinion: Anchorage is a place, not a spreadsheetPaying for basic city services and schools is a responsibility, not an extravagance.
Read more »
Anchorage snowfall sets daily record as winter storm continuesThe National Weather Service reported 9.4 inches of snow fell Monday at the official monitoring site near the airport. A winter storm warning remains in effect through Wednesday.
Read more »
Photos: Multiday snowstorm wallops AnchorageThe storm led to dicey conditions on roads and sidewalks, though some are finding ways to enjoy the fresh snow.
Read more »
Man arrested in Anchorage after SWAT situationA man was arrested Saturday after the Anchorage Police Department’s SWAT team was called out.
Read more »