On April 14, 1958, at approximately 0230, Sputnik 2 burnt in Earth’s atmosphere.
I run in the street. It’s cold, but it’s always cold. “Catch that dog!” someone yells. Everything goes dark.
They put me in a tiny cage. I whine, loudly at first, then softly. I don’t know how many days pass.
They keep putting me in smaller cages.
They feed me food that isn’t solid. I can’t recognize it.
“I’m getting Kudryavka.” A pale woman with blonde hair says. She puts me in a machine that makes loud noises.
I lick her hand. She tastes cold.
A woman strokes me. “You’re a good girl.” her voice has an odd quality that I can’t place, “You’re a good girl, Laika.” I don’t know why there’s a tear in her eye.
A thin-faced man brings me to his house. He has three children, and they tug at my fur.
I’m in a room and it’s very cold and too small. It’s been three days.
They groom me, and paint my fur. It stings.
I’m in the same room. They kiss my nose. One says, ‘I’m sorry.’
It’s dark. My heart beats very fast. It’s too hot. My body burns.
Goodbye.