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He’s young and inexperienced so his prey is not dead, but is certainly injured. “If we stop him, the little thing will just suffer,” my mom points out. “But maybe there’s a chance,” I plead. We argue for minute after minute until I open the back door and scare the little monster off. His tail falls and claws retract as he scatters across the yard. The chipmunk, riddled with small gashes, is breathing rapidly and unsteadily—but breathing all the same. I offer water and shelter but my efforts are fruitless. I have to wonder; should I never have intervened? Or should I never have waited so long in the first place?