The Dogs of Babel

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  Yours,

  Remo and The Cerberus Society

  P.S. And bring your dog. We want to see what she can do.

  I read the letter with some uneasiness. What is this “facility” he’s talking about? Am I getting myself into something I might not want to be involved in? And what do they want with Lorelei? Will I be putting her in danger if I bring her? Underneath these fears, another concern begins to take shape, a concern that has more to do with my own vanity than Lorelei’s safety: If I bring her with me, what will I be able to show them, for all my months of hard work? Lorelei poking at random keys on a keyboard? Lorelei picking out the wrong flash card from the three I offer? If I tell my pathetic story about the time she almost said wa, what will they think of me? I could fake it, I suppose, rub meat on the keys I want her to push. But what would I gain from that?

  There’s a map enclosed with the note, with directions to the building where the meeting will be held. It looks to me as though the “facility” is an ordinary house in a neighborhood not far from where I live. I get in my car and take a drive past. It’s a small brick house with a neatly trimmed lawn. It doesn’t look like the kind of place that might contain a basement laboratory or a soundproofed shed where unspeakable experiments might be conducted. We never know, do we, what our neighbors might be doing behind their fences, what love affairs and bloody rituals might be taking place right next door? The world is a more interesting place than we ever think.

  But back to the question at hand: Should I go to this meeting? Will they hit me over the head, spike my drink, take my dog away from me? Or will it be like any other meeting—speakers, perhaps, a group discussion, someone jotting down the minutes, coffee and refreshments to follow? The truth is, of course—and I suppose you knew this already—the truth is that I want to go. I’m curious. An underground society of canine linguists right in my very hometown? So close to my house that I could actually walk to their meetings? How can I resist? And the prospect of conversation with other people, people who won’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind when I speak of what I’ve been working on, well, it fills me with excitement. It seems to me just now that I might find I have more in common with these people than I do with any of my so-called colleagues at the university.

  And so it is that on this balmy Saturday night I’ve showered and shaved, clipped Lorelei’s leash to her collar, and set off to join the Cerberus Society.

  When Lorelei and I reach Remo’s house, I can see that the driveway is full and the street is packed with cars. It certainly looks like somebody’s having a party. I find a parking space and let Lorelei out of the car. She trots happily along next to me until I start to lead her up the front walk; then something strange happens. She stops and refuses to go any farther. I pull and pull, but she resists.

  “Come on, girl,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

  As I struggle with the dog—she does, after all, weigh more than eighty pounds, and she’s pulling back with all her strength—the front door of the house opens, and a man steps out onto the porch. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s a heavy man with long white hair and a full beard. He reminds me of a king in a pack of playing cards. When Lorelei sees him, she begins to bark.

  “Hi, there,” he says. “Having some trouble?”

  “A little bit,” I say. “She’s not usually like this. I’m Paul, by the way.”

  “That’s what I figured,” he says. “I’m Remo.”

  Remo comes down the front steps and walks over to us. Lorelei shrinks away from him and tries to hide behind my legs. She’s still barking, but it’s a different kind of bark. I recognize it as the one I’ve categorized as Frightened Bark #1.

  Remo kneels down beside Lorelei and takes hold of her head. Lorelei twists her face toward his hand and snarls, making a move as if to bite him. I’m horrified, but Remo acts quickly, grabbing her snout in one hand and snapping her mouth shut. With his other hand, he fingers a spot just behind her left ear. He parts the fur and exposes the skin beneath. I lean over to see what he’s doing, and I can see that there’s a tiny red dot there. I’ve never noticed it before; I’ve never thought to look.

  “Look at that,” says Remo. “She’s one of ours.”

  I stare at him, then look back at the dot with a profound sense of unease. “What is that?” I ask.

  “It’s a tattoo,” says Remo. He releases Lorelei and stands up. Lorelei retreats behind me, pulling her leash across the backs of my legs. “We do it to all the puppies we use. This one must’ve gotten away. Sometimes they do.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “We’ve had Lorelei since she was a puppy.”

  “Well, it looks like we had her first. The dot doesn’t lie.” He gives me a toothy smile. “This one must’ve gotten out early. Let me think, now—seems to me we had a litter of Ridgebacks maybe seven or eight years ago, and there might’ve been a pup or two who ran. That sound about right to you? Seven or eight years?”

  “Yeah,” I say. My head is fairly spinning with the import of what he’s telling me. “That sounds about right.”

  “Thought she was making a clean break,” Remo says, “but look where she ended up.” He laughs deeply. “Welcome back, girl,” he says to Lorelei. “Welcome back to the fold.”

  I start to back away. “You know, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Lorelei seems upset. I’ve never seen her like this. I think I should take her home.”

  “Nonsense,” he says. “We’re old friends. Isn’t that right, girl?” He extends a hand toward Lorelei, as if to pet her. She shrinks away.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” he says. “She does seem a little out of sorts. How about we put her in the back kennels while you come to the meeting? Let her calm down a little. She’ll be okay there. You can pick her up afterwards.”

  I look at Lorelei, cowering behind me. She’s terrified. I shouldn’t have come here. And to think that this is the secret of Lorelei’s puppyhood. This is what she was running from when she came wet and bloody to Lexy’s porch. Who knows what kind of horror she endured here before escaping? I should just take her home and never come back. I should call the cops on these people.

  Remo sees me hesitating. “I think you might be interested in staying,” he says, lowering his voice. “Tonight’s a very special meeting. We’ve got a speaker you might like to hear. A speaker who’s not exactly human, if you catch my drift.”

  I stare at him. “You don’t mean —”

  He smiles that wide smile again. “That’s right,” he says. “We’ve got Dog J.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I stare at Remo. “Dog J?” I say. “He’s here?” Remo smiles something close to a smirk. “You got it,” he says. “So what do you say we put your dog away in the kennels and show you around?”

  I look down at Lorelei, still cowering behind me. Should I just take her home and forget I’ve ever seen this place? I imagine the evening ahead of me, sitting quietly at home with Lorelei, knowing that only a few blocks away, a group of men are gathered to hear a dog speak. I don’t think I could bear it. Lately, I have to admit it, I’ve begun to lose faith in my project. I’ve begun to wonder if I’m wasting my time. It would be a great boost to my morale to see the living proof that all my efforts have not been in vain. To see that it is possible, after all. What hope it would give me! I look up at Remo’s house, ordinary and unprepossessing as it is. Somewhere in that house, the world’s only known talking dog is waiting, waiting to tell us what he has to say. How can I not stay for that?

  “I’ll tell you what,” I say to Remo. “I’ll just run her home. It won’t take me a minute.”

  “You sure?” he says. “The kennels are just around back. I’m sure she’d be perfectly comfy.”

  I look down at my frightened dog and feel a surge of protectiveness. “No,” I say. “She’ll be better off at home.” I kneel down to comfort her. “Shh, girl,” I say. I can feel her trembling. “It’s going to be all right. What a good
girl.” Remo’s looking at me strangely.

  “You talk to her like that, do you?” he says. “Well, I guess we’ve all got our methods.”

  “Come on, girl,” I say, leading Lorelei to the sidewalk. She bounds ahead of me, panting with relief. She pulls me all the way to the car. I open the back door, and Lorelei leaps in. “Don’t worry, girl,” I say to her softly as I crack the window open. “I’ll take you home.” She settles herself on the seat and rests her head on her paws.

  I drive home quickly and deposit Lorelei in the backyard. I give her a quick pat and dump a small pile of biscuits at her feet to apologize for the evening’s ordeal, then I head back to Remo’s. The street is packed with cars by the time I return. I end up parking two blocks away. As I walk toward the house, I can see that Remo is sitting on his porch, waiting for me.

  “You get her all settled in?” he asks as I head up the front walk.

  “Yeah,” I say. “She’s fine.”

  “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s show you around.”

  He leads me to the rear of the house. “We don’t get too many newcomers,” he says to me as we walk. “And we have to be pretty careful about outsiders. You never know when somebody might get skittish and call the police. But like I said in my note, we checked you out a little. And you come recommended by Wendell Hollis—can’t do much better than that.”

  I try to return his smile. “Right,” I say.

  We’re standing in front of a large outbuilding in the yard. I can hear barking and yelping coming from inside. It’s a terrible noise.

  “This would be the kennel,” he says.

  “Don’t the neighbors ever complain?” I ask.

  “Well, they used to,” he says. “But I made things pretty unpleasant for them, until they all either just shut up or moved.” He laughs. “Yep, I made things pretty unpleasant. The houses on either side of this one are owned by Society members now, so we don’t get too many complaints.”

  He swings open the door to the building and ushers me inside. I see that we’re in a long, narrow corridor with rows of cages on either side. The cages are filled with dogs of various breeds, most of them two to a cage. There must be thirty dogs in here. Most of them are pathetically skinny, and some of them have bandages on different parts of their bodies. The cages haven’t been cleaned anytime recently, and the smell is overwhelming. I’m very glad I didn’t agree to leave Lorelei here.

  “These are the dogs we’re currently working with,” he says. Dogs on either side of us fling themselves against the bars of their cages, yowling at us as we walk past.

  “They don’t seem very happy,” I say.

  “Oh, they’re fine. They’re just looking for their dinner.”

  We walk back out into the yard, and Remo closes the kennel door behind us. “The meeting’s going to be upstairs in the main part of the house,” he says, “but we’ve still got a little time. Why don’t I take you down to the lab and show you around?”

  I take a deep breath. “Sure,” I say. “Sounds good.”

  There’s a cellar door that opens into the yard, the slanty kind of door that opens outward to reveal stairs leading down to the basement. I remember suddenly that my grandmother’s house had a cellar door like this and that I used to like to slide down it when I was very small. Remo opens the door and gestures to the stairs inside. “After you,” he says.

  I walk down the stairs cautiously. It’s dark until Remo flicks the light switch. I’m prepared for any number of horrible things, but it looks pretty much like a regular basement. There’s a large table in the middle of the room, a sink in the corner, and a row of cupboards along one of the walls. I flinch slightly when I notice a display of knives and surgical equipment laid out on the counter next to the sink.

  “This is where it all happens,” Remo says. “Now, once you’ve joined the Society and paid your dues, you’ll have access to all this. I assume you’re working out of your house now?”

  I nod.

  “Well, you’ll probably find this a little easier. The room’s soundproofed, and we’ve got a good supply of tools and ether, suture materials, just about everything you need.”

  I nod again. “Great,” I say, in a hollow voice.

  Remo continues. “Now, it didn’t look to me like your bitch has been altered in any way. Am I right about that? You haven’t started operating on her yet?”

  “Uh, no. See, my background is in linguistics, and I thought I’d try a nonsurgical approach first.”

  Remo looks skeptical. “What have you been doing with her, then?”

  “Well, lately I’ve been working with flash cards, trying to get her to associate certain words with a set of pictorial symbols I’ve devised,” I begin. “I’ve had a special typewriter made up with these symbols, and I’m trying to get her to the point where she can type a sentence with her nose.” I stop talking. It sounds ridiculous, even to me.

  Remo’s smirking. “Yeah, and how’s that working out for you?” he asks.

  “Well, I admit it’s going a bit slower than I’d like.”

  Remo laughs. “Yeah, I thought so. Listen, you’re not the first one to try going at it from that angle, but here at the Cerberus Society we pretty much believe that there’s no progress without surgery. If you decide to join, you’ll also have access to our library”—here he points to a corner of the basement that has a couple of bookshelves lined with three-ring notebooks and veterinary textbooks—“and I think after you do some reading, you’ll probably come to the same conclusion for yourself.”

  Remo walks over to a filing cabinet that’s next to the “library.” He opens a drawer and pulls out some papers. He hands them to me.

  “Here’s our membership packet. You can look it over and let me know after the meeting whether or not you’ll be joining us. Dues are three hundred dollars a year, which may sound a little steep, but it goes toward covering the cost of our medical supplies, feeding the dogs, and paying for whatever guest speakers we have.” He smiles. “Of course, we didn’t have to pay tonight’s speaker anything. We’ll give him his honorarium in kibble.”

  I force a smile. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll look these over.”

  Remo checks his watch. “Well, we’d better be getting upstairs,” he says. He walks toward the staircase, then stops and turns around. “I forgot to ask you,” he says. “Are you married?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m a widower.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s probably for the best. We’ve found that most women don’t seem to understand the work we’re doing here. We have a little saying around here: ‘The only bitches we allow are the ones that bark.’” He laughs deeply.

  I look away. Remo sees I’m not laughing.

  “Well,” he says. “Meaning no disrespect to your late wife.”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not.”

  Remo leads me up the cellar stairs and back out into the yard. I listen to the noise coming from the kennels, and I feel a little bit sick.

  Remo and I walk around to the front of the house and up the steps. Remo opens the front door, and we walk into a little entrance hall. To the right is the living room, and I can see that there are several rows of chairs set up, facing a podium. Funny to think they’ve provided Dog J with a podium. There are about twenty men standing in groups, talking.

  “Come on,” Remo says. “I’ll introduce you.”

  He leads me over to a group of three men. He claps one of them on the back, a big, bulky man with thinning hair, holding a clipboard.

  “Lucas,” he says, “I want you to meet Paul. He’s thinking about joining our little society. Paul, Lucas here is our treasurer. He’s the one you’ll be giving your check to.”

  “No, give it to me,” says another man, with red hair and very white skin. “I’ll take your money.” The men all laugh.

  “That’s Aaron,” Remo says. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”

  “And don’t give him your money, what
ever you do,” adds the third man, a short, mousy guy with big eyes. More laughter. “I’m Tom,” he adds.

  I shake the men’s hands. “Paul here’s got himself a Ridgeback bitch,” Remo says. “Turns out she used to be one of ours.”

  “A runner?” Tom asks.

  “Yup,” Remo says. “But they all end up back here sooner or later, don’t they?” He turns to Lucas. “You were working with that litter of Ridgebacks seven or eight years ago, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right, I was. I guess this must be my prodigal daughter. She out in the kennel?”

  “Nope,” Remo says. “Paul took her back home. She seemed a mite upset to be here.” The men laugh. “Paul here was real concerned for her feelings.” Remo and Lucas exchange a look I can’t read. “Maybe he’ll let you take a gander at her sometime, if you ask real nice.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” Lucas says. “Perhaps I’ll come by sometime. Let’s see, you’re on”—he consults his clipboard—“you’re on Turner Street, is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I say. I don’t like these men knowing where I live.

  Remo sees the expression on my face and smiles. “I told you, we can’t be too careful,” he says.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “So Paul,” Lucas says. “Have you done any throat work on her yet?”

  “No,” I say. “Um, not yet.”

  “Paul’s kind of new to all this,” Remo tells them. “He’s been trying a ‘nonsurgical approach.’” The other three men burst into laughter.

  “Oh, you’re one of those, are you?” Lucas says to me.

  I stand there uncomfortably, not sure what to say. Remo claps me on the arm. “Don’t take offense, buddy,” he says. “We’re just joshing you.”

  “We’ve all been there,” says Tom, the mousy man. “I started out that way, too. Spent three years trying to get my beagle to say ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ Finally occurred to me that he was designed wrong, and I wasn’t going to get a word out of him unless I fixed him.”

  “And how did that work?” I ask uneasily.