Poor Pickle.

All the way back from the dinosaur ages, got out from ice, and being treated like a literal animal. Sure he acts like one, but that’s all he’s known.

He didn’t know what was good or bad, or how to even speak English. Yet here he was, every day either locked up or in an arena to fight somebody.

So you stepped in.

You are a scientist so you make a lot of good money. You put that good money to use. You took Pickle in; your mansion far away in the middle of nowhere was perfect for him.

Now he was asleep. Curled up in a ball in the tall grass field.

Because his life didn’t end when he was used as a punching bag.