Molly woke up suddenly Tuesday morning and realized that I was close to her. She was instantly in what I call “feral mode.” She was afraid she might be in danger, despite the fact she’s been safe and well-fed in my home for 11 years. I caught this photo of her worried expression and posted it on social media. One of my friends who has a deep personal interest in the effects of abuse on humans had a reaction similar to what I’ve thought: “I wonder if that response is similar to the heightened state of alert that people with [a history of abuse] experience,” he wrote. I see a strong similarity between feral animals and abused people. Both can heal and change, but it takes time — and it requires us to be patient. After Molly’s last daughter died a couple of weeks ago, she spent nearly a week letting me touch her, which was unprecedented. She’s pulled away again, but the progress made my heart happy. It takes a long time to earn trust. If a feral animal or human with a history of abuse ever really trusts you, you’re being given a great honor. (I wrote something longer about this three years ago.)

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Briefly: We need to learn to walk away from dangerous disputes