Ivan sighed, the old bird’s not been the same since he mistook a road sign of a red squirrel for the real thing. “Grandpa!” “What!” The greying owl shook his head and bits flew in all directions. Ivan reflexively placed a wing tip over his own glass; no one liked vole droppings in their 15 year old single malt. “Where was I?” “Grandma’s story.” “Ah, yes.” He leant back…