Nick Abadzis’ Laika is a fictionalized account of the short life and sad death of Laika, the Soviet space dog. Be forewarned: it’s a three-handkerchief, bucket-of-tears kind of novel.

Laika’s story is one of loyalty and trust repaid with callous abandonment and deception, and the injustice of this tale resonates deeply. “Do not worry,” Laika is told, again and again. “Trust me.” Meanwhile, death waits for her, implacable.

Reading Abadzis’ graphic novel, I found myself saying “It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!” A very childlike reaction, one that I’m usually too jaded, or too adult, to voice so vehemently.

But the pointless suffering of an innocent animal tends to trigger that kind of vehemence. We want to the world to be less cruel, and when we see a devoted animal suffering and dying precisely because she’s so devoted, then the rationalizations we’re usually able to make as adults don’t work so well anymore.

Abadzis isn’t the first artist to engage with Laika’s tragic history. One of my favorite films is Lasse Hallstrom’s My Life as a Dog, recently released on the Criterion Collection label. It’s the story of Ingemar, a young Swedish boy growing up in the Fifties and struggling with feelings of abandonment and betrayal. Ingemar’s father is gone, his mother is desperately ill, and no one wants to tell him that his dog isn’t coming back. Sent away to live with relatives, Ingemar sits and looks at the stars and thinks of Laika, who got sent into space without any food, left there to die. “You have to compare,” he tells himself. “You always have to compare.” His grief at being sent away is sustainable, if only because he identifies with Laika, who had it so much worse.