A Dog's Story

Some people never get to see the stars. I guess I'm lucky for that reason alone. The world is a cruel and cloudy place, with everyone fighting for their next meal. Begging. Stealing. Hoping to live another day.

Men come and go. I bark too much, they never stay. I keep living. I am small, yet fierce. I am loud. And I am strong. Moscow does not give space for the weak.

I long for love. More love than a street dog like me is afforded. I see my kin with their owners - leashed, but fed. Warm. They may not be free, but the way I exist is its own cage. A cage I cannot escape. The cold and hunger batters at me, but I keep moving. I keep living.

More men come. They point. They gather. I've seen it before. Humanity rarely offers kindness, even in death. So I bark. But the hands cradling me are warm. I sink into the heat. At least, if it is without kindness, it is still warm.

But they are kind. They train me. I jump, I bark, I stay. They give me names upon names. Kudryavka. Zhuchka. Limonchik. They give me food to eat. It wasn't appetizing, but food is food. And their food made me strong. They do not stray from my strength. They lean into it. They give me boxes made for me. I am warm, I am fed. They give me names upon names.

Things are happening. People are moving. They look at me with anticipation, a buzzing excitement I can feel. Fear is natural. I overcome it. I go to a home with warm hands. I play with children. I am quiet and calm. I am loved.

They put me in one last box. The sounds are loud, but they always are. My heart is strong. They have groomed me for this day, my fur set. I remember the tongue of my mother, a distant past, as I am brushed. I am kissed. I am loved.

I am warm. I am fed.

I see the world like no one else has. My home is beautiful.

I am Laika, and I am ready to die.