"It is." Robb grinned, always pleased to talk up Weir at every given opportunity, especially to another animal lover. "Came across her as a cub during my stint touring around Moscow. Just a tiny ball of fur back then. Bottle fed her for what felt like ages..."
I'm a bit of a talker so if I hold you up too much just kick me in the leg and I'll get the hint.
The short conversation they'd had on the community network suddenly popped up in his head, and he quickly pulled himself back on track.
Those born with so much Pictish blood in their system tended to be extremely verbose when given the opportunity - especially if drink was involved, because that just got them more on a roll - and Robb McLellan was certainly no exception. Waxing poetic about anything and everything just came naturally.
"So! I should give these to you." Still grinning, Robb held out the folder. "As promised, my training certificate and a few piccies of Weir if you need them."
While Robb pretty much had the rest of the day free and open (another casting hold up at the studio put much of film production on the backburner for the rest of the week), he doubted Abby had the same luxury. And while nearly small enough to fit in his back pocket, Abby looked like a force to be reckoned with if pushed too far. Quite capable of giving him a good boot to the shin without batting an eyelash.