The two goddesses make their way to a large chamber and are greeted by the cheerful barks of Cerberus, the three-headed dog that guards the underworld.
As I wrestled Dean Martin under my arm, the dog threw himself left and right, his eyes bulging with fury, his outraged yapping filling the silent building.
There was the far-off yelping of possum dogs in the dark swamp under cool autumn moons and the smell of eggnog bowls, wreathed with holly at Christmas time and smiles on black and white faces.