Kud的名字的研究~

In a book chronicling the story of Soviet space medicine, Dr. Vladimir Yazdovsky wrote, "I wanted to do something nice for her: She had so little time left to live.
(來自英文維基http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laika)

「おお、フロップニク（スプートニクのなりそこない）よ」とロンドンの『デイリー・ヘラルド』紙は嘲笑した。ドイツの新聞は、遅いスプートニクという意味の「シュペトニク」と名づけてからかった。……ほかにも、カプートニク、スプラットニク、ストールニク、スパッターニク、ダドニク、パフィニク、ウープスニク、グーフィーニク（ポンコツスプートニク、ぐしゃぐしゃスプートニク、エンスト、おんぼろ、大ぼら、まぬけ……）等々、好き放題の造語が国内外の見出しをでかでかと飾り
(來自日文維基http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/ライカ_(犬))

Work with animals is a source of suffering to all of us. We treat them like babies who cannot speak. The more time passes, the more I'm sorry about it. We shouldn't have done it... We did not learn enough from this mission to justify the death of the dog.

尽管莱卡在太空只生存了几个小时，然而，它短暂的太空旅程证明了哺乳动物能够承受火箭发射后一定的严酷环境，为未来的载人飞行铺平了道路。
　　50年过去了，莱卡仍然是地球上最有名的狗之一。前苏联在1957年当年就为莱卡发行了纪念性邮票，莱卡后来成为了前苏联一种香烟的商标，并上了莫斯科一座纪念碑。1997年，莱卡太空飞行40年后，俄罗斯人在莫斯科郊外的航天和太空医学研究所为莱卡建立了一个纪念馆。当年，它和其他9只狗就是在这里接受训练的，而最后它被选中踏上孤独的太空之旅。
　　如今，全世界至少有6首歌为它而谱写，描述它这次孤独的单程太空之旅。人类将永不忘记这些可亲可敬的伟大动物！

“We treat them like babies who cannot speak.”– Oleg GazenkoI may have come across as pompous, a snob even. Truth be told, Father, great Siberian husky that he was, imbibed in me restraint. He often lay by, watching drearily, even as his comrades before him took to each others throats over the night’s last morsel. I never knew Mother. I was told she was a dainty terrier, which might give some meaning to my slightness. Living thus phlegmatic, and of meager means and form, I must admit, kept the life in me quite supple. Then I turned three.
I was picked up from the dusty Moscow streets by a burly comrade, snarling about Khrushchev, or so I could discern with all my pitiful grasp of Human. My last gaze at Father was, quite literally, unblinking, uneventful. I turned forward, thirsty for a world more colorful.

“I wanted to do something nice for her: She had so little time left to live.” – Dr. Vladimir Yazdovsky
Kudryavka, they called me. Little Curly. I was gifted a small but tidy contraption to spend the night in, dinner with the chef’s complements. Flattered as I was, I found the platter queer, unused to the semi-solid delicacies I was being treated to. The next nineteen days saw me being transferred to alternate accomodation by the day, each contraption smaller than the last. It had been days since I defecated. The colorful world had lost its sheen. I didn’t like the food anymore. I missed Father.

It wasn’t long before I was finally taken out and transferred to a peculiar contraption. It wasn’t unlike my earlier homes, in size. But the metallic finish, the lights and switches adorning the walls, gave no aura of warmth. I whined, to get away, and also in fear that I wouldn’t fit the crevice that seemed to be my placeholder. It was only after they fastened me in that I realised just how much slighter I’d become. I could feel my heart against my ribs; it seemed to be beating faster since the past few days. I spent the next two days adjusting to my metallic shelter. I could sense something in the air. Something was going to happen. Soon.

Day three in the metal ball with legs; November 3, 1957. I couldn’t turn around in my metal shell, my harness was a taskmaster. The chamber door was clamped down a few minutes ago, leaving me with the blinking lights and a few rations of food. The Moscow streets I’d so gaily escaped from beckoned to me. I began making plans to leave. Then my shell started trembling.

The tremors grew massive, Digging my nails into steel, I dreaded my shell falling apart. I could hear many voices, agitated, excited. Gradually, they grew distant, until all was still but the constant roar from the outside. A force pulled me to the ground, unseen but strong. I stayed down, tongue hanging limp, trying to soothe the bloody muscle pounding against my frame. Silently, I pleaded to the blinking lights, asking to be taken back to my old kennels. They soon stopped blinking.

The air was thick. My tongue lolled constantly, reaching for nothing. It was hot. I spread myself out, trying to cool down. Another hour. Hotter now. My limbs seemed like another’s, lying somewhere in my shell. I heard yelps. Mother. Or was it me? Hotter now. Another hour.

After 2,570 orbits, during re-entry on April 14, 1958, Sputnik 2 disintegrated, along with what remained of Kudryavka, known to many as Laika, the space dog. She breathed her last on November 3, 1957.