Category Archives: Alaska

Recently, I wrote about our dog, Holly, her losing a leg to cancer, and her amazing ability to bounce back and get on with life as if nothing was amiss. She was her happy self, smiling, I swear, as she bound across the yard or played mama to a friend’s high-energy pup. Unfortunately, things took a bad turn, as these things tend to do.

Less than a week ago, Holly began having trouble standing. She could do it, but you could see there was something going on. Then she had trouble with the three stairs leading up to our house. Within days, she couldn’t walk, couldn’t even stand on her own.

My husband had to leave on a research cruise–out of town and out of reliable communication range. I was on my own. We’d discussed the inevitable, but our vet was in his other location, and there was no one else in town to turn to when the time came. I prayed Holly could hold on until Hubby got back.

Then it got to the point where I had to lift Holly to bring her outside and stand there holding her up, encouraging her to relieve herself. Her brown eyes asked why I was encroaching on her “private business” yet she seemed grateful for my touch and support. I’d haul her back inside, lay her down on her bedding and we’d collapse, both of us exhausted and frustrated and unhappy. So unhappy. She deserved more than relying on me to get her outside. She deserved to be freed from the pain that made her shake and whimper, even when lying still.

I called my husband yesterday morning, Friday, leaving a message that Holly was in very bad shape, that the vet wasn’t available, that no one was, that I was at a loss for what to do. I had kids and other animals to tend. How was I supposed to give our furry friend a peaceful end to her pain?

I headed into work on the verge of tears, holding it together for my kids. They saw the difficulty Holly was having, and the stress of taking care of her was taking its toll on me as I got short with them. I apologized frequently for my behavior, but I’m not sure it helped.

Friday afternoon, I was done with work and about to go home when one of the office ladies handed me a phone message. One of Hubby’s coworkers had called regarding the dog. I realized Hubby must have called or emailed her and explained the situation, asked for help when I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

At home, I returned the call and spoke to Nancy. Her take-charge attitude and soft voice assured me that there were people to help. That she and her husband could take Holly to Valdez if I wanted. That if I went, Penny and Linee would stay with the girls so they wouldn’t have to go with me or be alone for the day. The ferry schedule was tight, however, arriving at Valdez at 11:45 then returning to Cordova at 1:15. Not a lot of time, but enough if weather didn’t hamper the voyage.

Knowing it was what I had to do, I called the vet in Valdez and explained the situation. He wasn’t normally open on Saturdays, but would come in under the circumstances. I called the ferry terminal here. They assured me that I would have time to run into town at Valdez, take care of Holly, then make it back onto the ferry for the return trip. The crew would be made aware of my situation and I wouldn’t miss the boat.

It was settled. I looked into Holly’s brown eyes and cried. In my head, I knew this was the best thing for her. In my heart, I knew it was unfair to put her through so much but it hurt, oh it hurt, to think about losing her. When the kids came home from school, we sat on the floor near Holly and I told them what we had to do. We cried. We told stories about getting her and her “Goomba sister” Bailey when the girls were little. How Holly used to jump the five foot fence that surrounded our house in Oregon. How Bailey, much skinnier then, used to follow and we’d chase the dogs through the neighborhood. We laughed and remembered. And we knew we’d never, ever forget.

Last night, we all slept on the living room floor beside Holly. I gave her an extra dose of pain meds to help her rest, knowing the side effects were moot. This morning, Penny came over to help load Holly into the car and stay with the girls for a little while until Linee and her son could keep them company. We all cried again and the girls said their good-byes.

I checked in at the ferry terminal and was once again assured the captain and crew knew what was happening. Monica, the clerk, handed me a little dog treat. “I know how tough this is.” She’s lived her for a while. I’m sure she knew exactly what I was going through, as did all of the wonderful folks who jumped in to help us.

The ferry ride was uneventful. Hubby called to make sure the boat had sailed because the weather had been iffy. He would be out of range again until Sunday and we’d talk again then.

At the Valdez terminal, I was met by a woman named Donna who has worked with Nancy and my husband. She got in my car and showed me how to get to the vet’s office. Valdez isn’t a large town, but it was great to have someone there to lean on.

The vet, Kelly, pulled up just as we did. He carried Holly inside and gently laid her on the floor. We chatted a bit then I filled out some required paperwork. He went into the back and returned with a syringe of yellow liquid. The sedative would relax Holly prior to administration of the drug that would actually stop her heart. I could stay until the very end or leave after the sedative took effect, whatever I felt more comfortable with. I wasn’t sure, and time was an unfortunate factor. He assured me she would feel nothing once the sedative kicked in.

He gave her the shot and Holly laid her head down as I stroked her soft ears. Her eyes were wide open and she looked around at the strange surroundings. I spoke to her, cried some more, told the vet and Donna about some of her antics. After ten minutes, she was still more interested in the clinic than closing her eyes. Not reluctant, just curious about where she was and these two new people—her new friends, because everyone was Holly’s friend. The vet gave her a second shot. Within minutes, her eyes closed and her breathing became regular. No longer quivering or whimpering with pain, no longer looking at me with confusion and frustration in her soft brown eyes. I cried on her big rottie head and whispered my good-byes. “Good puppy.”

I couldn’t bring myself to watch Kelly give her that final injection, the one that would stop Holly’s heart. I wanted to remember her in a peaceful sleep, perhaps dreaming of chasing squirrels or licking the girls’ faces.

Donna, also crying, walked outside with me and we returned to the ferry terminal. She drove and waited with me until it was time to load. Here was a woman I’d never met before, who knew my husband just a little, but was willing to go through almost as much emotional stress because of the commonality of our love for our animals. We said good-bye and I told Donna she and her husband had to visit us under more cheerful circumstances. I hope she takes me up on it.

I’m so grateful to all the people who got us through this difficult time, friends old and new, people I’d never met, who made Holly’s passing a little easier.

Returning home with Holly’s collar on the seat beside me, I was exhausted. Only one dog greeted me when I walked in the door. Bailey seemed confused, and looked past me. Where was her sister? I gave her a hug and cried some more.

It’ll be strange not to wake up to Holly’s smiling face or pat her big head when I come home. It’ll seem odd to call only one dog in. I’m sure I’ll call Bailey the wrong name now and again and feel the pang of loss. My girls or I will tear up, and we’ll all hug and sob then remember some funny thing about Holly and feel a little better.

Not much compares to the love and memories generated by our relationships with animals, and despite the pain of losing them we seem compelled to have them in our lives. We gave Holly the best life we could and a peaceful passing. I know she’s somewhere in doggie heaven, smiling, four legs flying as she chases a forest full of squirrels.

Good puppy.

One of our neighbors is becoming annoying. No, not in a playing his music too loud or letting his dog poo in our yard sense. He (or she?) is rattling our empty garbage cans at night and getting into things in the open bed of a pick up truck.

Yes, our formerly polite black bear is acting like, well, a bear.

When we first moved to this little coastal town in south central Alaska, we knew there were more bears than moose around, completely opposite from our previous location. Both critters can be dangerous, especially when your dopey dog runs up to full grown mama moose and barks in her bulbous nose. Not smart, dog, not smart at all. Both are given space and respect (as much as we can with said dopey dog, at any rate).

We quickly learned there was a neighborhood bear, but never saw much of the bruin. He (we’ll stick with the patriarchal pronoun for now) left piles of berry-seeded poo along the narrow strip of grass that separates our house from a swath of brush and the slope down to a creek. While picking salmon berries (no, they don’t taste like fish), my husband saw his brown nose peek out from some bushes. A stern, “Go away, bear” was enough to scare him off. Our cat was never chased. Our garbage cans were never so much as turned over, let alone debris strewn across the yard.

But things have changed.

Two weeks ago, I was settling down for the night when I heard thumping outside–the telltale sound of a plastic garbage can being abused. Shoot. I knew it wasn’t a neighbor’s dog. Taking up the heavy flashlight from the kitchen counter, I went to the front door and flipped on the porch light. Grateful we, like most Alaskans, have an arctic entry (an area for coats and boots that separates the house proper from the outdoors), I was able to keep the dogs in while I poked my head out the outer door. I could hear the bear bumping into things, and since garbage had been collected that day I knew he wasn’t making a huge mess. But due to the monster piles of wood dear husband had stacked for the winter soon to come, I couldn’t see anything.

“Go away, bear,” I said in my gruffest “dad” voice. The thumping stopped. “Go on, get out of here.”

I listened and waited, the half-glass outer door between me and the bear and flashlight in hand (why I had it, I don’t know. It’s not like I was going to go out there. But its weight felt good in my hand.). After a few moments of no sound, I figured the bear moved away from the house, back up into the brush. Just as I was about to go back in, he lumbered from behind the tall stack of wood into the light. My heart stopped for a second or two then thudded hard in my chest.

“That is one big freakin’ bear,” my brain informed me. Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, brain.

Maybe 200 pounds, he strolled past the porch and glanced up at me behind the laughable protection of the half-glass door. My heavy duty, 2″ diameter, foot long Mag-Lite suddenly seemed like a tube of tin foil. Not that I would have gotten close enough to hit him with it. Not intentionally, anyway. He kept walking and disappeared into the shadows.

The next morning, I warned the kids about our night visitor and made sure the coast was clear before letting the dogs out at night. All had been quiet for the past couple of weeks, except for the distinct whiff of musk the other evening that told us he was still making his rounds. But nothing destructive.

Until last night.

Hubby returned from a week of meetings and shopping in Anchorage at 1 am. He left the groceries and things he purchased in the back of the new, open bed pick up truck he’d transported back via ferry. (The truck is for the science center where he works, the groceries are ours and a co-worker’s.) He had some totes of freezer/refrigerator items, including coffee creamer, butter, cheese and meats, that he left outside rather than put away after a long day. It was cool enough to keep things fresh. Along with that, our pal Penny had purchased three dozen tamales from Taco Loco, a restaurant in Anchorage that she absolutely loves. Hubby transported them back with our stuff so we could store them for her, as Penny was staying in Anchorage for a few more days.

This morning, Hubby let the dogs out and discovered our bear had been back. Despite the presence of approximately 30 pounds of meat and other fat-rich goodies, the bear went for the enticing scent of tamales. And really, who can blame him? He pulled the tarp off the tote, chewed a couple of holes in the plastic, tossed the lid and went to work. Of the three dozen tamales, packaged in a tin foil covered pan, 21 survived. As long as Penny doesn’t mind paw prints on her corn husks, they should still be fine.

Living with wildlife is never boring, but the past few weeks have seen a marked increase in the excitement level around here. In the scheme of things, the loss of a dozen tamales isn’t bad (though Penny might not feel that way). We’ll be temporarily free from our furry neighbor’s antics once he goes into hibernation for the winter. For now, we’ll keep the garbage shut in the shed until pick up day, especially if we have Mexican for dinner.

Olé.