A small scream from the other room. “What? What?” “Can you come here?” On the rug is lying toes-up a small, lucid-bellied, iridescent, recently murdered gecko. Its tail has been severed to a bloody stump: it didn’t just drop, it was ripped off. By its extreme corners I pick up the rug and gingerly carry it to the ferns. “Tisch! Tisch! Where are you, you little cat-monster?” A cat-bell is no use to a lizard. We both stand over it mournfully, uselessly. “Poor little dragon,” he says.