The Dogs of Babel by Carolyn Parkhurst Page A

progress with Lorelei. I believe I am on my way to teaching her her first word.
    Here’s the way it happens: Lorelei is lazing on the carpet in a patch of sun, lolling on her back, and I’m observing her from across the room. As she lies there, she lets out a yawn, and as she yawns, she makes a noise that sounds like
wa.
I jump up from where I’ve been sitting.
    “Good girl!” I cry. I run to the kitchen and pick up her water bowl. It sloshes dangerously as I run back to the living room. Lorelei is sitting up now, roused by my sudden activity. “Good girl,” I repeat, and set the bowl down in front of her. She looks up at me, then at the bowl. Lazily, she sniffs at the water, then gives it a single lap with her tongue.
    “Wa,”
I say.
“Wa.”
I remove the bowl and put it aside, up on the coffee table. I sit down on the floor next to Lorelei. I have to get her to repeat the sound.
    “Roll over, girl,” I say, pushing on her flank. She resists. “Come on, girl,” I cajole. “Roll over.” After a few tries, I’m able to roll her onto her back. But how to make her yawn again?
    She’s eyeing me warily. I remember a time, years earlier, when my nephew was an infant and I was watching my sister hold him in her arms. As I watched, my sister looked down into the baby’s face and fluttered her eyelids slowly up and down. She looked as if she were having trouble staying awake.
    “Are you tired?” I had asked. “Do you want me to take him?”
    “No,” she said. “I’m trying to get him to fall asleep. Sometimes this works.”
    To my surprise, after watching my sister do this for a moment or two, the baby let his eyes droop once or twice. In another minute, he was asleep.
    Perhaps the same tactic would work on Lorelei. I stretch out on the floor next to her and look into her face. I let my eyes flutter shut, then open them again as if it’s a very great effort. I close them as if they were made of lead. When I open them again, Lorelei is staring at me, her eyes open wide. I try a few more times, with no luck.
    Trying another tack, I yawn grandiosely.
“Wa,”
I say, yawning.
“Wa.”
I reach over and retrieve her bowl from the coffee table and set it down in front of me.
“Wa,”
I repeat, then lean over the bowl and pretend to drink. I sneak a glance at Lorelei. She looks, if this is possible for a dog, surprised. Just do it, I think. Don’t think about Lorelei’s tongue and the other places she puts it. You’ve got her attention; just go all the way.
“Wa,”
I say again, and plunge my tongue into the bowl. The water tastes stale. I lap it up and drink two big swallows.
    “Wa,”
I say.
“Wa.”
    Lorelei stands up, shakes herself, and walks out of the room, leaving me sitting on the floor in her patch of sun, the taste of dog water fresh on my tongue.
    Sighing, I get up and pick up the dish to take it back to the kitchen. I empty it into the sink—if I’ve learned anything from this little exercise, it’s that I owe it to Lorelei to change her water more often—and wash the bowl with soap, something I haven’t done in quite a while. I refill the bowl from the tap, but as I’m about to put it back in its regular spot on the floor, I stop. What if I make Lorelei ask for her water? I flinch slightly at the idea. One of the cardinal rules of dog ownership is that you never withhold water. Every dog book I’ve read contains this rule, set apart from the text in bold letters: Always have fresh, clean water available for your dog to drink. But I’m not talking about long-term dehydration. I’ll simply watch to see when Lorelei goes looking for a drink, and I’ll take the opportunity to work with her on the
wa
command. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give it to her anyway. I’m not heartless. I place the full bowl on the counter and wait for Lorelei to get thirsty.
    In the meantime, I go into my study. I take out my laptop to continue my task of listing the titles of the books Lexy rearranged. The