Practice Typing

There was no hope for him. Buck was inexorable. Mercy was a thing reserved for gentler climes. He manuvred for the final rush. The circle had tightened till he could feel the breaths of the huskies on his flanks. He could see them, beyond Spitz and to either side, half crouching for the spring, their eyes fixed upon him. A pause seemed to fall. Every animal was motionless as though turned to stone.