straight shot no chaser

The dark furred male woke with a groan, head full of cotton. For a few moments, he was completely unaware of where he was. his heart rate spiked, adrenaline surging as chills rolled through his body. Then, his brain began to pick up. He was in a safe place, for the first time in his life. His body had been ready to quit on him, and it wasn't thrilled by the prospect of continuing to maintain his existence any longer. A few shallow breaths brought the aroma of mulch into his nostrils, and the heady smell of grasses. All of the sudden, he felt content to continue laying where he was.

Relaxation became a distant dream as his bad leg began to radiate pain from his toes to the middle of his spine. He'd been stagnant too long, and the joints were in agony. Drawing in a deep breath, he tried to meter out the pain in his ribs as a result of the stretch of his diaphragm. Grimacing against the pain, he flexed his toes. Rhythmically spreading and retracting them, working the muscles. Then, he rotated his paw as much as it would go. With the severed tendon in his lower leg, it was tough. Up, down, one side, the other. Roll the paw as much as he could. Work the strain out. Now for the difficult part. The muscles of his thigh had been mutilated many moons ago, and didn't work so well. He relied on his hip flexors for the most part, to draw his leg in towards his body. Deep breath in, and bring the leg up in the same movement. It hurt, almost too much to bear. He'd had broken ribs before, he knew the pain. It was familiar, and he knew when he was pushing the limits of their integrity.

Stretch the leg back out, and then draw it part of the way in again. That would do for now. He let out a deep breath, trying to avoid panting with the exertion. It would only make his ribs hurt more. Slowly, he opened his eyes to the light of the late morning. The birds were chattering softly between one another. Overhead, the tall grasses swayed against each other, making soft shushing sounds. He liked the ambiance of this little haven. Lifting his head from his paws, he examined his crippled hind leg. The muscles were seizing up every now and again, protesting the stretches. He knew better than not to work the muscles, after such a long time of having a lame leg.

Lounging like a sphynx, he let his acidic gaze flit about curiously. This was one of the first days he felt truly aware again, more like himself. More alive. If he could manage it, he might try and stand up, take a short walk. It would be good for him.