Sinister: first dog in space

[ian]

fame, at last.
they say dogs don't dream of fame.  but 'they' are all human beings.  those
that say things.  what do they know of canine fantasy?

of course, world wide recognition comes at a price.  they put electrodes in
his skull, they put instruments in places where a dog doesn't want
instruments, they dressed him up in a space helmet.  dogs look silly in
space helmets.

but heroism beckoned.  and those that see it beckon and turn away spend the
rest of their lives dreaming of where it might have lead them.

they told him: 'cmon, big fella.  an intergalactic pilgrim; a missionary for
our planet; the embodiment of the human..er that is... earthling hope for
better things' (they said this in russian.  because they were russian.
which is a good reason to speak russian).

and they gave him steak.  the finest steak. 'plenty more where this came
from.. no more scavenging around dustbins for YOU, big guy.  the best
restaurants; the hottest bitches; the comfiest sofas; the fastest cars - and
you can stick ya head out the window any time you want to..'

they told him this was just a preliminary.  the next time the rocket flew,
it would go to the moon.  and it would be on the television.  (at this point
they showed him a television, because he didn't know what one was.  being a
dog, he wasn't all that impressed by it, but that didn't stop them trying).
the humans would love him, they'd tell their dogs about him.  he'd be the
first Living Animal Legend.  the world would be his!

and, above all this, he was doing the earth the greatest favour any living
being could do it.  he was helping the scientists look for The Answer.  the
scientists told him this, although they had all read their darwin and they
believed they already knew what The Answer was.  he was acting for the good
of his fellow beings.  the politicians told him this, because they had all
read their marx and knew he sounded like he had The Answer.  if the priests
had been allowed near him, they would have told him he was getting closer to
god.  they had all read their bibles and knew they really knew what The
Answer was.

none of that means much to your average dog, but then, this wasn't your
average dog.  this was a Canine Hero.

his mother told him to bark, loudly, when he got to the moon, so she'd know
he had got there okay.  his personal trainer reminded him of the importance
of exercise - to make sure he lolloped around the space-ship at least three
times a day.  his friends looked a bit sad, and said they hoped he wasn't
gone for too long.

they were all invited to watch him depart, as he climbed up to the cockpit.
the russian space-agency clapped and cheered as he was strapped in.  the
american space agency growled and jeered, and wondered why THEIR dogs
weren't this brave.  the general public were told to be impressed, and,
before long, were impressed.

and the rocket left the earth.  and the rocket entered the void.


david bowie once wrote a song:

'floating in a tin can
far above the moon'

of course, this was years later, and it was never a Top Dog Tune anyway.  so
it didn't occur to our hero to reflect on the song, and conclude that
whoever had written it had no idea.-

there is a loneliness that is not quantifiable in words.  there is a
loneliness that stems from the feeling of being somewhere that nobody else
has ever seen.  there is a loneliness that comes of drifting away from what
you've been assured is real, never knowing if you'll come back into contact
with it again.  there is the loneliness of finding out you've been lied to.
these are the causes, not the feeling itself.  if words could befriend the
feeling through expression, it would no longer be so lonely.

a tiny capsule.  easily forgotten about.  a point was proved.  the
scientists and politicians felt happier.  the priests shuffled uneasily in
their seats and muttered about Divine Glory.  the dogs of the world were
told little about it.  it isn't always wise to inform the masses.

a tiny capsule.  the occupant puts his head on his paws, trying folornly to
scratch out the electrodes, hoping for the sanctity of either sleep, or
madness, and finding neither.  not yet.  not until the final sleep which,
even now, reaches out a solitary finger..

a tiny capsule.  perhaps it fell back to earth, at some point.  into the
sea, or at a place where only poor, foreign, expendable people lived.  the
human race moved on.  it dreamed new dreams - some of which were constructed
on this first, original, dog's dream; some of which were more about
destruction than construction.

if this were a film, this would be the point where the camera pans out, and
does a 180 degree turn, up towards the stars.  a distancing shot.  away from
the sorry carcass, consumed by the flames that rise from crumpled metal, and
up to better things.

every hero must fall.  so it is written, by those that write things.  nobody
told him that.

nobody said that, when the hero falls, another will be sought to take his
place.

truth is expendable, when dreams are at stake.

every night, though she is long dead, his mother howls at the place where
she thinks he has gone.  you can see her, sillhouetted on the cliff-top,
face angled up towards the moon.
perhaps she tells him to beware the dreams of others
perhaps she tells him not to trust people that promise him the moon.
perhaps, like every mother, she hopes he's safe, and happy, and a good
little soldier.

the moon watches her, unfeelingly.  the planets care little for these beings
that scurry across them.  there will be more heroes, more soldiers, more
liars, and she'll go on, regardless, till the day all the planets fall,
crashing into the sun.

----------------------------------------------------------



on a somewhat different note:  CHICKFACTOR.  that'll be nice, won't it?
anyone up for a bevvy before/after/at some point over that weekend?  should
there be a picnic on sunday?  should someone (not me) organise it??  should
we accept that its nearly october and the best place to meet might be a pub?
sort it out, please, boys and girls, and report back to me.
xx
ian

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