on space dogs

Lately, I’ve been looking for myself in lots of things. In people, in places, in songs. I spent the last three years thinking that if I projected an imagine of ‘perfect’, then one day I would indeed be perfect. Instead, I let myself get further and further away from myself. It felt as if I was flung out into space and have been hurtling aimless since. This year has been a rescue mission: bring her home. I have a tattoo of the space dog Laika on my forearm, people always ask why, and I usually say something along the lines of ‘oh I just love the space race’. The truth is, I didn’t want her to be lonely. Laika was a dog that the Soviet Union sent to space in 1957, she was a street dog who everyone (but her) knew was destined to die in space. I loved the idea of a doggy cosmonaut, hated the idea of a poor little street dog never finding her way back home. Forgetting her or pushing her from my mind just didn’t feel right, drawing her close, keeping her in my thoughts, rewriting her story felt better. So I put her on my arm, so she would never be lonely again and neither would I. I have felt, absolutely lost in space.

 

So this year I sort of launched a mission to bring myself back – I pointed satellites to the deepest reaches of myself, I sent out probes, I played my favourite songs and movies on repeat hoping she would hear it. Hoping she would make her own way back. At first, I thought maybe there was no way to do this – no way to recover parts of yourself you’d lost. But then, I caught her frequency. A ping in the darkness. That was enough to know it was worth pursuing, if there was a chance, we’d wait for her forever. I wouldn’t say the rescue mission is complete, but it feels like everything I do lately brings her slightly closer. Her favourite food, her favourite clothes, the things she had forgotten she loved with her entire being.

 

I think what I didn’t realize is how important it was to look – before I’d look in one spot, and the deafening silence would be confirmation that trying was futile. I hate this, I’d think. This is only going to end horribly. But when I learnt to stick it out – to stretch a blanket out beneath the stars and watch, earnestly and whole-heartedly, did I see the real results. I think I hadn’t realized how cynical I’d become, how resigned to my fate I felt, not realizing that I’d never been that person – I’d always looked to the stars and felt comforted. Comforted by the many worlds and the possibilities. Stars burning regardless of what happened on earth. I wondered when I’d lost that part of myself, or when I’d stopped talking to the moon. But ultimately, that wasn’t important. I have the mission, and I’m going to finish it.