On Monday evening, April 20, 1931, Byrd received word from home that Igloo, who was taking a break from the tour, was very, very ill. For the last several days, Igloo had been suffering from severe indigestion. Although three veterinarians had examined him, Igloo was not getting better.

Byrd immediately cancelled all of the lectures he was scheduled to give that week and he hopped on the next train to Boston, rushing to be by Igloo’s side.

But Byrd was too late. Igloo died before he made it home.

The nation mourned for Igloo, and Byrd received thousands of condolence letters. One even offered him another dog. Byrd politely declined.

“Igloo cannot be replaced,” said Byrd. “Those of you who are dogs’ friends know that a dog can be, and usually is, a better friend to his master than he is to himself.”

Heartbroken, Byrd held a funeral for Igloo. With his hat in his hand, Byrd watched the white coffin with silver handles lowered into the grave. Byrd’s son, Dickie, walked over and dropped a bouquet of sweet peas on the coffin. When Igloo’s grave was covered over with dirt, Byrd carefully placed a bouquet of white roses on it.

“He taught me much,” said Byrd. “Igloo … opened my eyes to the facts that animals can think and suffer, be loyal and gallant…. He was my good companion for five years and, as the stone over his grave testifies, ‘He Was More Than a Friend.’”