Tonight, now that the cowardly suitors have left for the evening, the youth comes to me and bids me to follow him. We climb a hill overlooking the shore and sit together in the gathering darkness, with only the night-flying bats to keep us company. Telemachos has brought with him a woven mantle, and he spreads it out on the grassy hillside for us to lie upon. Then he rests his head on my flank, and after a few minutes—during which I think he has fallen asleep—he asks, “Argos, do you know how the universe began?” Of course dogs have no use for this type of speculation, so I remain silent, though I lick his ear so that he will continue. “You see, according to Galenos, when the universe was born, there was only Chaos, the void of emptiness between heaven and earth. Then Erubus was formed, the place of unending death and night.” I whimper as he says this, but Telemachos adds hastily, “Not night like this, Argos, but ceaseless, silent blackness. Then Eros was formed from their union, and she separated night and day, and then Gaea appeared, our mother earth.
