I stand my ground as the monstrous hound bears down, and the vast heads duck to huff and inhale at magically significant points upon my body—the groin, not least, he being a dog—but also all around me, tasting the air. Not yet satisfied, he leans closer, near by my lips, and smells the tears of Isis on my breath, at which he yips and snuffles fondly at my face—huge triple tongue and vast fangs streaming with glad, abhorrent otherworldly lick—and is content. In fact, it seems not only Charon who is starved for cheery meals, for a few pieces of carob have him positively puppyish.