Clint's apparently been up early to get in some hunting; most of the village hunters go out during the day, which makes sense since they need to be able to see what they're aiming at and not risk breaking their necks by tripping over a tree root or something, but he's got a suspicion that at least some of the animals in the forest are aware of the routine by now and are hiding during peak hunting hours. Whether that's true or not, his eyesight is good enough that going out in the early hours isn't nearly the risk to his own neck as it is to others, and he has indeed brought down a few rabbits, which are already gutted and tied in a line with an improvised string made of the inner parts of some reeds. He's hoping some day soon, he'll get a young buck. The bow he's carrying and the makeshift quiver slung across his back are fairly commonplace in the village, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's a comforting sight.

Especially not when a fuzzy ball of brown wrinkles and long ears tries to clumsily shoot across his path, causing him to stop suddenly and Arado to stand at attention and bark. The silver-grey dog is almost full grown at eight months old and under all that fur it's hard to see how he's still slightly "unfinished" in the way of a gangly teenager, but the basset hound puppy is still small, slightly uncoordinated, and has short legs. Even as the puppy flops past Clint, he's saying a word and Arado, still barking, is sprinting off to the left to block his path. The puppy tries to veer off to the right but Clint drops the bow and lunges forward, grabbing the puppy by the back of the neck and easily lifting him from the ground in a way that looks a lot more uncomfortable for the dog than it really is. "Where's your owner?"