The Call Of the Wild

by Jack London

He whined placatingly, squirmed and wriggled to show his good will and intentions, and even ventured, as a bribe for peace, to lick Buck’s face with his warm wet tongue.

that pride which holds dogs in the toil to the last gasp, which lures them to die joyfully in the harness, and breaks their hearts if they are cut out of the harness.

At sound of this, the cry of Life plunging down from Life’s apex in the grip of Death, the fall pack at Buck’s heels raised a hell’s chorus of delight.

these dogs that were ill-tamed wolves;

And all the while the silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog went down.

Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes.

Buck stood and looked on, the successful champion, the dominant primordial beast who had made his kill and found it good.

For the pride of trace and trail was his, and, sick unto death, he could not bear that another dog should do his work.

Love, genuine passionate love, was his for the first time.

And as Buck understood the oaths to be love words, so the man understood this feigned bite for a caress.