In the New York Times’ “Science Times” section of 4 November, Dana
Jennings, an editor at the Times,
published a review of a new book by Olesya Turkina called simply Soviet Space Dogs (translated from the Russian by Damon
Murray and Inna Cannon; FUEL Publishing, 2014).
Turkina, a research fellow at
St. Petersburg’s State Russian Museum, relates the history of the Soviet
space program of the 1950s and ’60s by telling the stories of the canine
cosmonauts launched in the rockets and Sputniks of the USSR in early
experiments before humans, starting with Col. Yuri Gagarin aboard Vostok 1 on
12 April 1961, were sent up. Though
some seven nations have sent animals into space, including the U.S., only the
Soviet Union made a practice of using dogs (China seems to have sent two dogs
into space in a single flight).
I don’t know how many people who read ROT occasionally are old enough to remember the beginning of the
space race, which began in earnest on 4 October 1957 with the flight of Sputnik 1, the first man-made object to
orbit Earth. I was not quite 11 and just
starting 5th grade when we listened to the launch reported on a radio our
teacher’d brought into the classroom so we could hear the world-shaking event
live. (Needless to say, the same
procedure was followed on 31 January 1958 when Explorer 1, the first U.S. satellite, was launched into space.) All of this, including Gagarin’s first
flight, when I was in 8th grade, and then Marine Lt. Col. John Glenn’s Friendship
7 flight on 20 February 1962 (I was a 15-year-old prep school freshman by
then) were objects of endless fascination for me and most of my peers (and, I
daresay, our parents as well). This was science,
this was modernity, this was adventure.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that I was
mesmerized by our new, young president, John F. Kennedy, whose election in 1960
was the first in which I took an active interest. (I suppose part of my focus came from the
fact that JFK’s Republican opponent was Vice President Richard Nixon whose daughters
were my schoolmates.) It felt personal
somehow, not like the reelection of Dwight Eisenhower in 1956 when I was 9,
going on 10 (I barely even remembered the first Eisenhower election: I was 5!). I still have vivid memories of the Kennedy
inauguration, when the famously hatless president exhorted us—and believe me,
he was talking directly to me and my friends—to “ask what you can do for your
country.” (It turned out, unbeknownst to
me at the time, JFK was addressing my father as well; later that year, he left
private business and joined the U.S. Foreign Service.) I sincerely believed that “the torch has been
passed to a new generation of Americans,” even though I was too young then to
take it up myself—but I felt as if this new era was mine in a way. My father, who had turned 42 three days
before the vote, had a similar sense: he confided in me that this election had
been the first in which he felt the candidates were more like his older brothers
than his father (he told me once he’d cast his first presidential ballot in
Franklin Roosevelt’s third campaign, when Dad was 22 and FDR was 58).
Not long after that remarkable inaugural address, JFK made another
now-famous speech that also had resonance for me even at that young age. On 25 May 1961, the
president stood before Congress and declared that the U.S. should “commit
itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on
the moon and returning him safely to the earth.” I don’t know how many people, hearing that
promise, believed it literally—but, not knowing any better, I did. After all, wasn’t this the United States of
America? Wasn’t this the 1960s? We were at the vanguard of history, weren’t
we? What could possibly prevent us from
fulfilling JFK’s magnificent pledge? For
probably most of my generation, the Baby Boomers, those of us just entering our
teen years in the new, modern decade of ceaseless prosperity, television, jet
planes, and rockets when the only war was a cold one, the exploration of space,
until then the purview of science fiction and fantasy, was the most exciting
and important human endeavor ever conceived.
Even as the war in Southeast Asia usurped our attention, broke our
hearts, and dampened our spirits in the years to come—before that anticipated
moon landing on 20 July 1969—space flights were always events of immense excitation. We may not have sat glued to the radio for
the later ones (I was actually out of the country in July 1969, for instance)
like we did in that 5th-grade classroom in 1957, but we paid close attention
nonetheless.
Now, we all knew that the space programs used
animals as test passengers. The U.S.
tended to concentrate on monkeys and apes, and occasionally the animals died on
the flight. (The first dogs to die on a
mission were Lisa, Russian for “Vixen,” and Dezik on 29 July 1951 when the
module’s parachute failed to deploy.) I
guess what we youngsters didn’t know—because it wasn’t reported or
publicized—was that in the earliest test launches, the animal passengers weren’t
expected to survive. Later, when I was a
little older and more aware, as fascinated as I was with space exploration, I
felt twinges of fear and sadness for the animals who hadn’t volunteered for the
missions but were made to risk their lives for our benefit. I don’t know why, though, but the primates we
sent aloft didn’t get my sympathy to the same extent as the dogs sent up by the
Soviets. Maybe this was because I never
“knew” a monkey or a chimp, but doggies were part of my life; we had dogs as
pets from the early ’50s until we went overseas in 1962. (I missed having a dog so much that as soon
as I settled in New York City as an adult, I adopted a dog and had a canine as
a pet for the next three decades.
Readers of ROT can check this out by reading my two doggie posts,
“Sobaka:
A Memoir,” 31 July 2009, and “Thespis,” 10 February 2010.)
(There’s a small irony in this report in that
I named the first dog I had as an adult on my own “Sobaka,” which is the
Russian word for ‘dog.’ The illustration
accompanying Dana Jennings’s book review was a poster of one of the early
canine cosmonauts with a caption that reads in Russian: pervyi passazhir sputnika ‑sobaka “laika”—which
means “The First Passenger Of Sputnik –The Dog “Laika.”)
In the 1950s and ’60s, the USSR sent up 57 missions, both
orbital and sub-orbital, with dogs as test passengers to gauge how humans would
fare in space. Little was known about
the effects of space flight on the living body and no one was even sure if
humans could survive the launch, the departure from Earth’s atmosphere, or the
weightless vacuum of space itself. The
actual number of individual dogs who flew on Soviet rockets was smaller than 57
because several animals flew more than once, and most survived the flight. The few who died in space were the victims of
technical malfunctions such as hull penetrations or failures of the descent
parachutes or life-support systems; but Laika, the first dog who went into
orbit, was never expected to return to Earth since the technology for reentry
from orbit hadn’t yet been developed.
The last Soviet space dog flight was in 1966.
The Soviet scientists
felt dogs, trained at the Institute of Aviation Medicine in Moscow, were easier
to train and more capable of enduring long periods of inactivity than other
animals. The preferred dogs for the test
flights in the USSR were strays picked up on the streets and in the alleys of
Moscow because the scientists felt they would be more able to endure the harshness
and stresses of space than dogs used to living in homes. The testers assumed that street animals had
already learned to withstand hunger and extreme cold. Small, robust female mongrels were the
scientists’ choices in the belief that they would be more likely to stand up to
the rigorous training. Small animals—no
more than 14 inches long and 13-15 pounds—were necessary because of the
confined space of the early space modules and bitches were used because the
clinicians deemed their calmer nature more suitable for the flight conditions and
because the animals’ space suits had an apparatus for the collection of waste specially
designed only for females. (The
leg-lifting necessity for males was a problem as well.)
In addition, the
dogs had to be photogenic, even-tempered, and energetic for the propaganda the
missions were sure to generate. All the
photos of the space dogs that I saw, every one of them cute and
intelligent-looking, looked a lot like my Jack Russell-mix, Thespis! (Thespie’d have been too big for the program:
he weighed in at about 25 pounds.)
As part of their
training, the dogs were made to stand still for long periods and confined to smaller
and smaller cubicles for 15 to 20 days at a stretch to prepare them for the constrictions
of the space capsule. (The dogs could
stand, sit, or lie down, but there was no room in the capsule to turn around.) Other regimens included wearing space suits
and riding flight simulators and centrifuges that replicated the force, speed,
and noise of a rocket launch. (These
machines left the animals with increased pulse and elevated blood
pressure.) The test animals all received
a special diet of high-nutrition gel to help them bear the rigors of space
flight and confinement. The test dogs were
trained to eat this special food that would be their sustenance in space.
As I indicated,
several of the experimental dogs died in the service of the Soviet space
program, but those who survived their space flights, though some suffered
adverse after-effects (tooth loss, gallstones, constipation, and restlessness, for
example), lived out their days in the loving care of the scientists and lab
technicians of the IAM. One bitch,
Strelka, who flew in 1960, returned to whelp six pups, one of whom, Pushinka
(“Fluffy”), was sent by Premier Nikita Khrushchev to three-year-old Caroline
Kennedy, the president’s daughter, in June 1961. Some became canine heroes and celebrities,
appearing on radio and TV (what do you suppose a dog does on radio? It’s sort of
like ventriloquist Edgar Bergen on the air in the ’30s!) and getting their photos
in the press. They even made “personal”
appearances alongside human celebs and a photograph of some of the doggie space
travelers’ descendants is displayed at the museum of the NPP Zvezda company (Research and Development Production
Enterprise Zvezda; the name means ‘star’ in Russian) in Tomilino,
Russia, outside Moscow (the manufacturer of space suits for the Russian space
program and ejector seats for fighter jets).
Years later, looking back at the costs and benefits of the
early space program in the Soviet Union, one senior scientist expressed regret
at the deaths of the test dogs. Of
Laika, he said: “The more time
passes, the more I’m sorry about it. We
did not learn enough from the mission to justify the death of the dog . . . .”
In his review of Turkina’s Soviet Space Dogs, Jennings named four of the scores of dogs the
Soviets sent into space: Laika,
Mishka, Belka, and Strelka. Let’s have a
look at their stories.
Before orbital
flights, the space program of the Soviet Union shot 12 canines into Earth’s
upper atmosphere, just shy of outer space.
(Some of the vehicles broke through the atmospheric barrier and so
technically flew into space.) The first
Earth-born creature, aside from microbes, officially to be catapulted into
space, and the first animal to orbit the Earth, however, was Laika (the name
means “Barker”). Possibly part husky
or Samoyed and part terrier, the approximately three-year-old Laika was
launched into orbit from Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan on 3
November 1957 aboard Sputnik 2 atop a
modified SS-6 ICBM. Laika, the name by which she became known to
the world, like many of her fellow space dogs, had several names at various
times. She was originally named Kudryavka (“Little Curly”) and was also known as Zhuchka (“Little Bug”) and
Limonchik (“Little Lemon”). The press in
the U.S. dubbed her “Muttnik,” a pun on the orbital module Sputnik. (Sputnik is just the Russian word for
‘satellite’; it literally means ‘co-traveler.’)
After Laika was picked up from the streets of Moscow, she
was kept for training at the IAM like her fellow space dogs. The even-tempered, 11-pound mutt, described by
her trainers as “quiet and charming,” was prepped for the Sputnik
2 flight at the Moscow lab with two other canines, Albina (a woman’s name, comparable to “Blanche”) and
Mushka (“Little Fly”), who didn’t fly with Laika but went up on other flights. Albina, who’d already flown twice in
sub-orbital missions, was Laika’s backup passenger and Mushka was the “control
dog,” kept on the ground and monitored to test the gauges on board. The three canine cosmonauts went through the
training regimen I outlined earlier.
The Sputnik 2 mission was intended to repeat
the spectacular success of the first orbital flight, attracting the world’s
attention to the Soviet space program. Khrushchev’s
scientists decided in October on an orbital flight with a canine
passenger. This left only a month to
design and build the spacecraft in which Laika would ride. The mission was to be a test to see if a
living creature could survive in space as well as a chance to take instrumental
measurements of the sun’s radiation and cosmic rays. The craft was equipped with rather
rudimentary technology and provisions: enough of the special food for seven
days, devices to regulate the oxygen level and clean the atmosphere of carbon
dioxide, a temperature regulator to keep Laika cool, instruments to measure her
heart rate, respiration, and other vital signs.
The dogs were prepared
at the Moscow lab and then flown to Baikonur Cosmodrome. At the launch site, the dogs’ training was
continued as they were placed inside the capsule to get used to the confinement
and the feeding system. Laika was installed
aboard Sputnik 2 three days before
the launch while final preparations were made.
The mission staff all knew that she wouldn’t be coming back.
Sputnik 2 was launched in the early morning of 3 November
1957 (reports of the exact time vary between 5:30 a.m. and 7:22 a.m.). When the rocket reached orbit, the nose cone
containing Laika’s module was separated, but some of the technology
malfunctioned, likely because of the rush-job to construct the capsule, and the
heat-regulation system couldn’t function properly. Temperatures inside the module rose to 104
degrees Fahrenheit and Laika’s monitors showed she was under tremendous
stress. Between five and seven hours
after lift-off, after Sputnik 2’s
fourth orbit, Laika’s readings indicated no signs of life. These facts weren’t revealed until 2002; for
decades, various accounts of Laika’s death were rumored, including that she’d
died of oxygen starvation or that she’d been euthanized as planned with
poisoned food. On 14 April 1958, over
five months after its launch, Sputnik 2,
with Laika’s remains on board, fell out of orbit and disintegrated on
reentering the Earth’s atmosphere.
Like some of her
successors in the canine space program, Laika became a folk hero. Her photograph in a space suit and helmet
appeared in newspapers and magazines, and her portrait was affixed to just
about anything someone could put it on: toys, candy wrappers, cookie cans, matchboxes, handkerchiefs, postcards, envelopes, stamps, badges and lapel
pins, and commemorative plates. There
were even Laika brand cigarettes. But
Laika became a symbol, the representation of all the animals who were thrust
into space to serve the human quest for new frontiers, sometimes at the loss of
their lives. A memorial to the first dog
to orbit Earth was unveiled at the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center in
Star City, Russia, on 12 April—Cosmonautics Day (the anniversary of Gagarin’s
historic flight, in anticipation of which Laika’s life was sacrificed)—in 2008.
Mishka (colloquialism for “Little Bear” similar to “Teddy”
in English; also a man’s nickname that’s equivalent to “Mikey”) seems to have
made two sub-orbital flights. Little
seems to have been recorded about Mishka’s flights and the names by which the
space dogs were known were sometimes reused so it’s not always easy to
determine if all the canines called Mishka are the same animal. She seems to have gone up aboard a Soviet R-1B
rocket on 15 August 1951 with another
dog named Chizik and again on 28 August with Chizik. Both flights soared to a 100-mile apogee and both
the dogs were safely recovered after the first flight, but the mission failed
on the second outing and the animals died.
(Other records say that Mishka and Chizik survived that second launch
and Mishka flew again aboard an R-1D rocket on 2 July 1954 with another dog
named Damka—“Little Lady”—but while her companion survived, Mishka died.) While later orbital flights had pressurized flight
capsules, earlier sub-orbital test flights such as Mishka’s didn’t and the
earliest pressure suits were still largely experimental—though there’s no
record that these facts had any bearing on Mishka’s demise in flight.
(Mishka was also the name of the bear mascot of the XXII Olympiad
in Moscow in 1980. A common name
for toy or fictional bears in Russian, its popularity probably stems from the
alliterative name Mishka Medved, or “Mikey the Bear,” in the same way animal
characters in English are named Tony the Tiger and Rocky Raccoon. The popularity of the nickname for bear
characters—the bear has always been associated with Russia both among Russians
and among outsiders—has made it a common name for other animal pets,
particularly dogs. There were many
canine cosmonauts named Mishka in the ’50s and ’60s, while, for instance, there
was only one Laika even as she became a symbol of patriotic sacrifice—however
unwitting on the dog’s part. Some of the
names seem to be untranslatable or purely colloquial, such as Dezik, a nickname
but I know not what for, and Chizik.)
Belka (“Little Squirrel” or “Whitey”; belyi is Russian for ‘white’) and Strelka (“Little Arrow”), like
their names, were a matched pair as far as their history in the Soviet space
program was concerned. They flew into
orbit together on 19 August 1960
aboard Sputnik 5, staying aloft one
day (about 18 orbits) before returning safely to Earth. (The two 12-pound mongrels were actually
substitutes for the original selections, Bars— “Panther” or “Lynx”—also known as Chaika, or “Seagull,” and Lisichka, or “Little Fox,” who’d died when their rocket exploded on the
launch pad.) Along with their fellow passenger animals—a rabbit, 42 mice, two rats, a
swarm of fruit flies—they were the first Earth-born creatures to survive an orbital
flight.
The Soviet space scientists
monitoring the passengers’ vital signs at first became worried when video
transmissions from the Sputnik 5 module
didn’t show the slightest movement from either dog during the first three
orbits. On the fourth orbit, though, Belka
shuddered a little and vomited (which became a factor in limiting early human
flights to a single orbit). The two
canine cosmonauts seemed to snap out of their torpor and for the remaining
dozen orbits appeared more animated. The
success of the flight prompted the Soviet government to release the film of the
flight a few days afterward, showing the two dogs, one in a green space suit
and one in red, doing somersaults in the weightlessness of the capusle. Strelka appeared apprehensive and uneasy, but
Belka seemed to enjoy herself, barking and playing.
Belka and Strelka were immediately celebrated in children’s
story books and cartoons and a
Russian animated film entitled Belka and Strelka: Star Dogs (Belka i Strelka. Zvezdnye sobaki) was released in 2010 (2013 in the U.S.,
as Space Dogs). Especially popular with children, the dogs
toured schools and orphanages. The two
doggies even posed with visiting American pianist Van Cliburn, who hugged Belka
and Strelka on camera. The pair never flew another mission, living out
their lives in honored retirement at IAM.
The dogs died of old age and their bodies were preserved and are
on view in Russia’s Memorial Museum of Cosmonautics in Moscow (also known as the Memorial Museum of Space
Exploration). Belka’s displayed in
a glass case in the museum, but Strelka is still traveling around the globe as part
of a touring exhibition. A 16-foot memorial statue of the two canine
space explorers peering out of a giant space helmet is planned outside the
Zvezda plant.
As I wrote
earlier, in retirement Strelka had six puppies, including the one named Pushinka who was presented to JFK’s
daughter, Caroline, and lived in the White House. Pushinka’s sire was Pushok (“Fluff”), a lab
dog who never made it to space. (Pushinka
and a Kennedy dog named Charlie in turn had four pups whom the president humorously
called pupniks, two of whom,
Butterfly and Streaker, were given to Midwestern
families. The other two grand-puppies of
Strelka and Pushok, White Tips
and Blackie, lived for a time at
the Kennedy home on Squaw Island in Hyannisport, Massachusetts, but were
eventually given away to Kennedy family friends. Pushinka’s descendants are still alive today.
Eight months after Sputnik
5 bearing Belka and Strelka returned safely to Earth, and following some
half dozen more canine flights, the first human space passenger flew around the
planet. Cosmonaut Gagarin is reported to have quipped: “Am I the
first human in space, or the last dog?”
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