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realize that I have no idea where to begin.
    I suppose the first step in teaching a dog to speak might be to teach her to ‘speak.’ That is, to teach her to bark on command in the parlor trick usually referred to as ‘speaking.’ I get a biscuit and call Lorelei over to me.
    ‘Sit,’ I say, and she does.
    ‘Speak.’ She just looks at me. ‘Speak,’ I say again.
    Uncertainly, she lies down.
    ‘Up, up,’ I say. She stands.
    ‘Good girl. Now sit.’ We’re back to the beginning. She stares at me intently, her nose twitching at the nearness of the biscuit I hold. She sneaks a glance at the treat; hasn’t she already performed several tricks?
    ‘Speak,’ I say firmly. Then I start to bark at her. ‘Rrr, ruff!’ I say, staring into her eyes. ‘Ruff, ruff! Speak! Ruff, ruff!’
    Lorelei cocks her head to the side. This is unprecedented behavior on my part. Never before have I gotten down on the floor and barked at her. She waits to see what I’ll do next.
    ‘Speak, girl!’ I say, pulling my face closer to hers. Our noses are almost touching. ‘Grr,’ I say, staring into her eyes. ‘Ruff! Ruff!’ I’m nearly shouting. Finally, it works.
    Lorelei lets out a noise, not quite a bark, not quite a whine. It sounds, more than anything, like an expression of frustration - When the hell do I get the biscuit? - but it’s progress.
    ‘Good girl!’ I say effusively. I break the biscuit in two and give her half. She settles down to gnaw on it. I wait until she’s finished, then urge her back into a sitting position.
    I show her the other half of the biscuit. ‘Speak!’ I say.
    ‘Ruff, ruff!’ This time she gives a full-throated bark, and then another. ‘Good dog,’ I say, ‘good speak!’ I hold out the other piece of biscuit, but she ignores it. She stares into my eyes, her brow furrowed, and continues barking.
    ‘Okay, now, good girl, quiet,’ I say. I pull away slowly, sliding back on the carpet, still sitting. ‘Quiet now!’
    Lorelei stands up, drawing herself to her full height. She has to lean down to continue barking in my face.
    ‘Good girl,’ I say soothingly. She’s making me nervous.
    I stand up; my books have told me that in situations like this I need to assert my position as alpha male. ‘Quiet,’
    I say more firmly. She looks up at me searchingly and barks again. She’s less aggressive now, but I can’t get her to stop. I reach out and gingerly pat her head. ‘Do you want a cookie? Nice dog, nice cookie.’ Finally, she takes the biscuit. She retreats to a corner of the room, where she drops it on the floor and pretends to bury it, using her nose to draw the folds of the carpet over the biscuit.
    ‘Good girl,’ I call from across the room. I sink down on the sofa and watch her concentration as she goes about her task. I pick up my notebook. ‘Taught Lorelei the command Speak,’ I write. ‘Results inconclusive.’ I lean back and close my eyes. Across the room, Lorelei picks up her biscuit and takes it into a different corner to start over again.

7
    I became a linguist in part because words have failed me all my life. I was born tongue-tied in the most literal sense: the tissue connecting my tongue to the floor of my mouth was short and thick, limiting lingual movement. It’s a common enough condition; the doctor simply snipped the membrane in the delivery room, and I grew to speak like any normal child, with no lingering impediments. But the image stays with me as a kind of metaphor for all my subsequent
    dealings with language: I was born with a tongue not meant for speaking, and despite all artificial attempts to loosen it, it has stayed stuck in place at every important moment of my life.
    But that first day with Lexy, I found I had plenty to say. Waiting in line to congratulate the bride and groom, radiant now in their own faces, for they had taken off their masks to kiss after all, I chatted with the other guests, happily introducing Lexy as the one who had made all