On day twelve, Grizzle took a mealworm from her open palm.

She realized something crucial. Grizzle wasn’t a chicken-killer by choice. The infected paw made it impossible for him to dig for his natural diet of grubs and roots. Starving and in pain, he’d taken the easiest prey: domesticated, slow-moving chickens. The raid wasn’t malice; it was desperation.

The clinic’s motto, stitched on a pillow in the waiting room, read: “Treat the wound, but listen to the silence between the growls.”

While Grizzle recovered in a quiet, dark kennel, Dr. Vance watched him through a one-way mirror. She noted his stereotypic behaviors —the way he paced in a tight circle only to the left. She recorded his auditory triggers —the clang of a metal bowl made him freeze, the crinkle of paper made him relax.