Recovery was not a straight line. The days that followed were a careful choreography of patience and boundaries. Pear startled at sudden sounds, froze when strangers moved too quickly, and tucked her head when leashes appeared. Baths were taken in stages, warm water introduced like a question rather than an order, towels pressed gently instead of rubbed. The missing eye required special care, and her skin needed time to relearn what it meant to be clean without being stripped. Volunteers spoke softly around her, narrating their movements, turning routine into reassurance. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to change. She learned that hands could scratch instead of seize, that food arrived reliably, that sleep could happen in the open without danger. Her tail, once clamped like a secret, started to lift. She followed people from room to room, not begging, just checking—are you still here, are we still safe? The internet would later call this transformation miraculous, but inside the shelter it felt more like a series of small agreements honored day after day.
