Today we have a post from a special guest. 6th-grader Alan Kaufman of Orangeview Elementary felt slighted by his grade on a class assignment. I told him that he needed a place to vent and that he could publish his essay here. Please welcome, Alan Kaufman.
Hey everyone. Thanks for reading this. The whole class was given an assignment, which was already up on the board when we got back from recess. It said: Compare and contrast the beginnings of the Soviet and American space programs. What was far more interesting to me was the footnote in our history book about Laika, the Russian dog (I doubt she knew she was Russian) that had the distinct pleasure of being the first creature in space. Sadly, though, she died a few days into orbit.
But she had a story.
What was her emotional state? Did the Earth look smaller? Did she find it tedious to lunge for her floating kibble? I thought I'd write Ms. Pendleton (that's my teacher--she kind of looks like a dehydrated camel) a first-dog account of Laika's adventures, from liftoff to her last moments, when she'd press her little paw delicately against the porthole as she waved goodbye to milk bones and fire hydrants. Beside it would a lot more fun for Ms. P to read. And a lot more fun to write.
Alan Kaufman
6th grade, Rm. 5
Ms. Pendleton
The Space Race Essay: The Laika Report
Day 1, 9:33 A.M., seconds into orbit
I can’t feel my tail. It’s got to be there, but I can’t feel it. I’ll try wagging it. Nothing. In fact, I can’t move at all.
Oh god, I feel dizzy. Why is it dark outside, when only moments ago it was light? What’s happening to me?
What’s happening is that I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Where’s my squeaky toy? Somebody? Anybody?
I WANT MY SQUEAKY TOY!
Day 1, 9:37 A.M.
Okay, I’m better now. Kind of. I can’t move because I’m strapped to the floor. But I can move my head around.
I’m in some sort of small metal doghouse. There’s a round window, not that I can see out of it, but it’s there. And, yes, my tail is still there. I can see it when I turn my head the right way and it happens to float up on its own. That’s weird.
I need to scratch behind my ear really bad. I can’t, however, use my paw. I’ll try flapping my ears. See if that helps.
My ears are floating, too! I shake my head, but my ears don’t react like they should. They just sort of slowly wave in opposite directions.
Wait a minute! What’s that? A tiny black dot is suspended in the air in front of me. A dot with legs. A flea! There is a flea floating in front of me.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Day 1, 10:22 A.M.
I have to pee.
Day 1, 10:40 A.M.
I still have to pee. What should I do? I can’t lift my leg. Well, hopefully this will all be over soon, and I can find a nice big tree or a cozy fire hydrant.
The metal doghouse is turning! Why is it turning?
What was that?
Something is outside the window. Something bright. Something green and blue and white. A giant ball. Please make it go away.
Okay, it’s gone now.
But what was it? And why can’t I play with it? It looked like the ball I used to play with in the park. That was always fun. Maybe it will come back.
Oh, please come back, bright green and blue and white ball.
It’s not coming back. I miss it. I miss it a lot. In fact, I have this uncontrollable desire to fetch it.
Day 1, 10:54 A.M.
I wet myself. I couldn’t hold it any longer.
Oh god, I feel like that crazy cocker spaniel down the street that pees if you looked at it funny.
Great. Just great. Now the pee is floating around the metal doghouse.
Why is everything floating?
I just want to bury my head under a blanket.
Day 1, 12:06 P.M.
It’s all Natasha’s fault. I was perfectly content chasing her around the Kremlin. We had managed two laps, and I was ready for a third. But her heart just wasn’t in it that day; the fur wasn’t quite on its usual edge. So I let myself get distracted. I just had to stop and admire the nice building, didn’t I? I was all, “Ooh. Look at the pretty spires. Ooh. Look at the architectural details.” That’s when the white van with dark windows pulled up beside me. And I just sat there, wagging my tail like some hyperactive puppy, mesmerized by the gilding, which was all sparkly in the sunlight.
What was I thinking? I should have run. Bad dog! Bad dog!
A man stepped out of the side door, threw a bag over my head, lifted me up, and tossed me in the van. I heard the tires squeal as the van took off. My first instinct was that we were headed to the park for some hide and seek. My second instinct, the more accurate one, was that I had been kidnapped by the KGB.
You hear about it all the time. A wayward household pet, out for a little stroll, perhaps humming the tune from the latest pet food commercial, is abducted by men in black trench coats, reflective sunglasses, and hats that look like fuzzy toilet seat covers.
I should have run.
Day 1, 3:12 P.M.
I heard a noise. A short beep followed by a metal scrapping. I have no idea what that mean—
Oh, great! More floaty things. Just what I need.
Wait a minute.
Sniff, sniff.
It smells like kibble.
Sniff, sniff.
It is kibble. If I could only reach it. Here comes one. Come on, baby, float by my mouth, float by my mouth.
Ah, pickle! I just missed it.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until now. Not that floating dried pellets are quite what I had in mind, but it’ll do, I suppose.
It’s these darn straps. They make me so mad. I can’t scratch, I can’t eat, I can’t pee, and I can’t see out that little window for the ball. Grrrrrrr! I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to get free of these straps. Maybe if I stretch my neck…
…Yes! I can reach the first strap with my teeth. It may take a while, but I think I can bite through it. Besides, I’ve spent plenty of hours gnawing on my favorite chew toy. If I could get through this first strap, I should be able to squeeze out of the second. Here goes nothing.
Day 1, 9:40 P.M.
More than half way there.
Day 1, 11:56 P.M.
I’m free!
Oh, wait! Now I’m floating. I didn’t see that coming. I should have, of course, but I’ve been distracted.
I’m floating up, up, up. Ouch! I hit my head on the ceiling.
Hey, there’s a doggie door! I can get out. But how do I get to the door? I’m still floating. Maybe if I try running.
I’m moving now. But it’s not like running. It’s more like swimming the doggie paddle without getting anywhere fast.
Almost there. Almost there. I’m here!
Ah, crap. I hit my nose on the door. Or, rather, I bounced off the door with my nose. And now I’m floating in the opposite direction. This sucks.
Might as well try catching some of the kibble. Here comes one. Got it.
Ah, double crap. When I bite into the kibble, the little pieces just float out of my mouth before I can swallow. I’ve never had to chew with my mouth closed before, and I’m not sure if I can. I really don’t have lips.
Here comes another one. I’ll try again.
Whoa! I lunged way too hard. I’m starting to spin.
At least I can see my tail now. In fact, if I bend at the middle, I can almost reach it.
I’m soooooo close. So close. Just need to go a little faster. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle!
Weeeeeee!
Whoa! Too fast, too fast!
Day 2, 12:07 A.M.
This is getting me nowhere. I can see now that this could go on for hours, and that prospect ranks right up there with a trip to the vet, where the boundaries of personal space are pushed to the limit with the all-too-familiar encounter with the thermometer.
In fact, I’d take that over this any day. I hate this place! I hate everything about it!
I need a nap.
Day 2, 2:19 A.M.
It’s no use. I just dream that I’m chasing Natasha with my super canine powers, only to start floating off the sidewalk toward the sky like a balloon, hitting the topmost spire of the Kremlin. Then I wake up and realize that I’ve hit the metal box in the corner. That box freaks me out. It’s covered in switches and buttons and lights. And there’s a really big red light that makes the metal doghouse glow. Since my fur is white, the red light makes me look pink. It’s not very flattering.
I bet I could make that light go away. I just need to float in that direction. But not too fast. Hmm. Instead of my legs, I think I’ll use my tail. I just need to get the right amount of wagging.
Okay, I’m moving. This is good. A little to the left. A little to the right. Closer. Closer. Ah ha!
I’m hovering over the metal box. Perfect.
All right, here goes nothing. Wait a minute. I should say a few words first.
This is for my kidnapping. For my empty stomach. For my dear squeaky toy. For all things floaty. And, specifically, for my complete lack of a fire hydrant.
I lifted my leg and peed on the light.
A few drops floated away, but most of it had hit the mark. I gave it a quick sniff, pushed off the box with my paw, and somersaulted backwards.
I did it! Take that, stupid light! You can’t intimidate me. I have marked you with my scent. I own you. And there ain’t nobody who can take that away from me.
A short and strange sizzle-like noise came from the metal box and the red light started to blink.
Yeah, that’s right! I did that. Who’s the dog? Who’s the dog?
I think that deserves a treat.
Blink away, stupid light! Blink away!
Day 2, 5:35 A.M.
The light won’t stop blinking. And it’s really getting on my nerves. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. I don’t know what I’ve done. And I don’t know what to do. Let’s see. I know! I’ll bark at it. In fact, someone might even hear me and let me out. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll bark. I’ll bark for my freedom.
Here goes nothing!
Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!
Day 2, 6:02 A.M.
Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!
Day 2, 6:17 A.M.
Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!
Day 2, 6:43 A.M.
My throat hurts. And it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Stupid box! I think I'm going about this all wrong. Or maybe no one is there.
I'll try looking out the window again. At least I'll be able to see the blue and green white ball. Okay, I'm floating toward the window. I've got good speed and my trajectory is on-target. If I lift my paw, I might be able to stop myself before I hit my nose again.
Yes! I did it! Where are you, blue and white ball?
What the--
The ball is all white now. White with gray spots. And it seems smaller. Wait a minute! Wait just a milk-bone minute! I know what that is. That's the moon, or so I heard it called. And it's not small at all. In fact, that's the biggest moon I've ever seen. But now I know what to do. There's only one thing to do: howl!
Aroooooooh! Aroooooooh! Aroooooooh!
Oh man, that feels good.
Aroooooooh! Aroooooooh! Aroooooooh!
Day 2, 4:19 P.M.
Aroooooooh! Aroooooooh! Arooooooooooooooh!
Day 2, 10:54 P.M.
I've just realized something. If the moon is bigger, then that must mean I'm closer to it than I've ever been before. And if I'm closer to it, then I'm no longer where I started, which means that the big blue and green and white ball isn't a ball at all. It's where I came from. My home.
I'm going to need to think about that for a while.
Day 3, 4:00 A.M.
To be honest, howling at the moon was fun, a real sense of fulfillment. But not that I know what I know, the feeling isn't the same. It's fleeting, like a dream fulfilled without another one in reserve. After this, what's next?
Day 3, 5:12 A.M.
Oh, no! The metal doghouse is turning. I won't be able to see my home.
Day 3, 6:48 A.M.
It's the moon again. Nothing but the moon.
Day 3, 7:29 P.M.
The metal doghouse is turning again. Here it comes! My home!
What I wouldn't give to run in the park again. Or lay in the sunshine on the soft rug under the window. Or leap out friskily from behind the bush and scare the hat off the postman. That's always good for a laugh.
Hi, home! Can you see me waving at you? Can you see me?
Day 3, 8:01 A.M.
I know the metal doghouse will turn again, and I won't be able to see my home. But I can see it now. So I think I'll be happy. I'll just have to take now for as long as now will last.
The end.
And that's what I turned in. Sadly, I had to do the whole thing over because I "failed to follow directions." But I'm glad I could publish here. Laika would like it, I think.
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