“Herding grannies to...” Raven trails off, dumbfounded. “To do
their shopping?” he inquires hopefully.
“To be sold,” the guide insists.
The dog ducks and weaves until the stray group of old women has been
returned to the bigger gaggle.
“Take time,” shouts the Granny Wrangler, coming round a corner.
He's dishevelled looking, in a country life kind of way; green coat
and wellies, flat cap and goatee beard, home-made cigarette in his
mouth.
Both dogs move away from the old women, but still run back and forth
to keep them together.
The Granny Wrangler takes the cigarette from his mouth. He begins to
whistle but instead finds himself hacking a deep cough, surprise on
his face. He stuffs the cigarette back in his mouth, draws deep, and
exhales, smiling.
