Hades stood back a little while he ruminated over all of the things that the goddess had told him while they were walking. It was all useful information, and Hades appreciated it more than some of the things she'd said before, even if his only response while they walked had been a slight nod. He did not, however, appreciate the way she started fawning. At first he'd thought they'd be alright, because she'd just stood there like she should have, but then suddenly her voice emitted a high squealing frequency at the top of the words and she was all over the dog. He should have been better prepared. She'd warned him that the most dangerous things down here were the most beautiful, and he'd still brought her right to the dog without a third thought. Hades didn't know how to react to this. He didn't know anyone's voice could do that, and she was grinning so widely that Hades thought it might be best if he stood back in case her mouth fell right off her face and they had to get help, because his eyes were wide enough to fall out at the same time. She was just lucky that the dog liked her better than it did the living.
He'd already told her the dog was going to get bigger. Hades didn't understand why she was talking like that anyway. If the dog could understand what she was saying, it would understand in a normal register, and if it didn't understand, that register wouldn't help. The dog reacting favorably only made things worse. If it needed that to be happy, Hades might as well just give him up to Philotes. She'd give him eggs, apparently. Hades didn't think the dog needed eggs to make his coat shiny. Hades didn't understand why a shiny coat was necessary at all. He looked healthy enough, and Hades knew that the dog wasn't just living on whatever Hades gave him. He went up to the mortal world and supplemented. Now that Hades had decided to keep him down there for good, the dog wouldn't be able to do that anymore, but this was for the best. Like the goddess had said, that sort of practice could get the dog in trouble with the Olympians. Hades wouldn't be opposed to the dog eating anyone in the Underworld that didn't belong down there, or did but tried to escape, but Hades supposed he'd have to start feeding him more anyway.
“They're all the same size,” Hades answered, with an eyebrow raise. What kind of a question was that? Are the heads all that big? The dog wasn't a mutant. “And he's a he,” Hades confirmed. He wasn't sure if he should answer. It was hard to tell if she was actually talking to him, but Hades figured he might as well save the dog one awkward encounter where Hades could.
He put his hand over his face. The moment she called the beast 'cute', Hades knew showing her had been a terrible move on his part. He felt moderately horrified for the dog by what was happening right now. It was a massive three-headed dog with three mouths brimmed with slobbering teeth as sharp as swords, and a snakelike tail. It was probably the cutest dog she'd ever seen. She'd probably never see one nearly as cute ever again. But that didn't mean she should use the word. She said it aloud. To the dog. Hades wasn't okay with that. Labels had power. The more powerful labels the dog had, the better off it would be. Hades couldn't let the goddess ever have the dog. She'd completely ruin it.
He looked up, and dropped his hand when she addressed him. The question made Hades blink. Names had power too. Names bred familiarity. They made things closer, and made it easier to connect things with other things. He didn't mind the responsibility that would come. Namers had an obligation and duty to the things they had named. But everything else made him pause. Hades wasn't sure he should give that dog a name.
But if he didn't name the dog, she might. Hades didn't think he'd like any name she came up with. She seemed like the sort of person who liked to add 'ee' endings. Inwardly, he cringed.
“Cerebus,” Hades said. Now he'd have to look out for the dog forever. But at least he wouldn't end up with a name like 'Fluffy' or 'Bunny.'