I have already spoken about that dog. I had him on my team six winters. He was the most human “Husky” I have ever known.

In the spring when the ice begins to cut all dogs’ feet, he would always be the first to ask for his moccasins. He would not sulk, go lame, whimper or run out of the trail. He would stop dead in his tracks, lie on his back, stretch and wave his four legs straight in the air and howl until each moccasin was fastened securely to each foot.

In camp at nights if he was not tied up, he would burrow in the snow until he was completely hidden, and remain there out of sight until the team was ready to leave. No amount of calling and coaxing would induce him to leave his hole, which was generally so well hidden that it was impossible to find it. But as soon as he felt the other six dogs in harness ready to go, he would burst out of the snow and slip on his own collar with a toss of his nose while he looked around anxiously to see if the driver was coming to fasten his girth.

Poor, dear, old Spot! He died in 1913, in harness. He was getting old and the last trip was too much for him. After a week of bitter suffering, he fell in the traces. We put him on the sleigh. His pride forbade him to be drawn by the team. He rolled off in the snow and tried to get back to his place in the lead. He was very weak but he still snarled defiance at the young dogs who were doing the work without him.

Little by little, even out of harness, he could not follow the pace. He fell back on the trail. All day he struggled behind us. That night he joined the camp two hours after dark. He refused his food but, heartbroken, insisted upon searching for his harness which had been put aside on the sleigh.

Early the next morning before anyone stirred in camp, my man shot him in his sleep. We could not leave him behind us to eat his heart out in the wilderness, then fall the prey to a roaming pack of timber wolves. Poor, dear, old Spot!