“I mean,” Lena said, scratching Kit behind one velvety ear, “that Furrytails treats the whole creature. And sometimes the whole creature is reacting to a world that’s forgetting how to be wild.”
“Sensory migration,” Lena murmured. “Stress is rerouting your neural pathways. Taste buds trying to borrow optic nerve real estate. It’s not dangerous, but it’s uncomfortable.”
Lena nodded, keeping her expression neutral. Furrytails wasn’t just a vet clinic—it was the only clinic in a hundred miles that treated non-standard physiologies. Shifters, cryptids, familiars. The ones who fell between the cracks of human medicine and standard animal care.
“Hello, Kit,” Lena said softly, closing the door. “I hear you’ve been tasting colors again.”