"Laika" was the name of the dog that rode the Soviet Sputnik 2 mission into space in 1957, and died because she overheated a few hours into the mission.
She appeared beside me before I could climb on the shiny palomino— barefoot, bright-eyed, with a plan already forming behind her charming grin, so naturally I let her canter first and then I’d take the reins. She rode it with unstudied grace and I was mesmerized. We talked of stars and silver ships, of other worlds and Laika— the brave little dog who never came home— but must have found a garden— on another planet— with open fields and softer skies. She rocked on, lost in orbit— hair lifting with each gallop, the world beyond the saddle fading into breeze and stardust as time trotted on unnoticed. And when the rocking slowed to stillness, she hopped down easy as a sigh, thanked me with a quick bright smile, and gaily skipped away— off to find new wonders waiting hid in the shimmer of the day. I stood there, nickel spent, half-laughing at my luck— had I just been bamboozled by a spacefaring femme fatale? Perhaps. But I’d talked with a girl who knew the stars by name, and I decided that was worth the ride.
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