I walk into the dining room. Scooter is under the table, wearing a shifty look.
The look that says something is not quite as it should be.
So I look around, and there, under a chair, is a little slow worm. It has sacrificed the end of its tail, which should regrow, but seems otherwise unharmed.
Scooter – who lacks the killer instinct – looks as though he isn’t quite sure what one does with such a trophy. Nice to catch, but then what? So I decide for him.