For some reason, the troglodyte’s sadness and misery brought to my mind the memory of Argos, the old dying dog from The Odyssey. So, I called the troglodyte Argos and I tried to make him understand that this would thenceforth be his name. I failed miserably, though. Neither obdurateness nor solicitude nor violence proved successful. Static, with his inert eyes looking nowhere, he did not seem to understand even the sound of his name. Although he was just a few steps away from me, it felt as if thousands of miles had separated us. Lying on the sand like a minute and decrepit sphynx, he let the stars, the moon, and the sun glide over him, from sunrise to sunset. Neither the biting cold of the snow nor the heat of the scorching sun elicited any response from him. The troglodyte just sat there. Unresponsive. Lethargic.