I've been in Physical Therapy for a week now. The doctor says I'm making excellent progress. I'm actually hobbling along pretty well on crutches. I've been exploring this whole floor of the hospital. There were a handful of people like me, Furries who had once been human and decided to have their bodies changed. I learned that some fuzziness of memory is actually typical, though I seem to have gotten a worse dose that usual. 

At this stage, interaction is critical, because it's the only way my brain will learn to process my senses of hearing, smell, and sight. The last is the least critical, because the only change is that I have much better night vision than I used to. My sense of hearing and smell are much sharper though, and it's going to be a while before I can unconsciously sort everything out. The first time I came near the lounge, it was like I could hear every single word, of every conversation going on in the room. From whispers, right up to someone yelling, when their team made a goal. Cheese, that was frightening.    

I'm learning though. They gave me a funny set of ear plugs, and some kind of nose ointment. It's cut way down on things, and as I get used to it, I open the ear plugs more, and use less of the ointment, until I no longer need them. Oh, and Dave exists! I called his name while I was at the nurse's desk. It wasn't more than a minute later when the phone rang, and it was him! The upshot is that I can talk to him, whenever I want, because he explained to them, how he was able to communicate with me, wirelessly. 

Oh, they did do the biopsy, and the mystery deepens. According to the lab, there's nothing wrong with my arms, at all. So why are they still all scared and gross looking? 

*Click*

I'm in a normal room now. My hearing and sense of smell have adjusted enough that the smell of the janitor cleaning the floor no longer fills me with waves of nausea, and I can actually hold a conversation, without being distracted by everyone else talking around me. I never thought I'd treasure my ability to ignore people, so much. Not that I'm rude about it; in fact, other people seem to like talking to me. I don't know what I was in my last life, but I seem to have this deep well of empathy and common sense. At first, people laughed, because I'm a bit slow to reply, but now they shush anyone who does that, explaining that I tend to be unusually well thought out.

I still don't know who Dave is; he's waiting until he can explain everything, in person. He has such a gentle, jovial personality, and it's very obvious that he's extremely fond of me. One of the things he hasn't explained is how he knows me. Sometimes, he sounds like Alfred, off of Batman, Sometimes he sounds more like Mokuba Kiba; like I'm his missing, feared dead, utterly adored older brother. Something more than mere friendship binds us; of that I'm certain. 

*Click*  

I'm finally off the crutches, but not out of Physical Therapy, not by a long shot. I can finally walk unassisted, but now it's time to find out what I can really do. This time, she took me to a different room, designed to give me an idea about that, and then let me practice, until I was able to do all of it, like I'd been born knowing it. Cheese, after my first session I was utterly convinced I was as flexible as a snake. Working the machines, I seemed to be all double joints, and possessing of an unbelievable sense of balance. When I finally couldn't stand it any more, I asked her, "Tell me the truth Doc: Was I bitten by a radioactive mouse?" She just laughed and told me I was normal.   

She then went on to explain that while I am a little more flexible than the average human, it wasn't nearly as much as it seemed. Most of it was merely the newness of it all, after such a long period of inactivity. The rest was relatively small changes the Transition had made. There was a chance, too, that I was actually somewhat younger that I had been, as a human. While Transitioning is no fountain of youth, it's not unheard of for them to feel several years younger. Given that I looked younger than my age, and my tendency to for child-like behavior, I could easily be mistaken for an eighteen-year-old.

She offered to order the tests, since the hospital itself only had a rough idea, but I declined. I wanted to enjoy my new body for a while, before reality set in. Plus, something told me Dave would know, and he'd let the hospital in on it. Just for the sake of completing their paperwork. Even she admitted the only other reason it was important at all, was so they knew if I'd graduated from high school or not. Because of my status as a transition, there were special classes I could take, to make up for any gaps in my education. 

*Click*  

I'm currently reading the "Mouse" volume out of the "Furry Life" series. It's been really helpful, because it's about the ins and outs of being a Furry Mouse. Turns out there are a few things I'm really good at. Mice in general are quick, clever, and intelligent. They're known for being extremely graceful, able to maneuver on a dime, and capable of impressive bursts of speed, for short periods. They are also great friends to curl up with on a rainy day, because, being burrowing animals, they love to cuddle and snuggle.

I know that sounds a little trite, like it came out of an Astrology guide. You try compressing two-hundred-and-forty pages into a couple of ideas, fit for an audio journal.
Now that I have an excellent idea what my body's limits should be, I have some idea which machines I should excel at, and which to go easy on. Not that I'm going to completely ignore my physical therapist, far from it. It's just that I've actually been encouraged to create my own training regiment as part of the learning process.

"Get involved", seems to be something of a Furry mantra.  To them, there is nothing better than personally getting your paws dirty and finding out something for yourself. All along, I have been constantly encouraged to push my limits, both physically and mentally. Thus, when they told me, yesterday that I'd be leaving soon, I felt confident enough to agree with them. Over the last several months, I have accomplished so much, but I have reached the limits of what the hospital can do for me: Time to go out and discover the rest of the world, for myself. 

*Click*

This may be my final entry. I'm leaving Saint Francis Hospital, this afternoon, for a Guide Dog Halfway House. Originally started as part of the final will and testament for a crippled human, who had depended on a dog to help him, for his entire life, the Guide Dogs were the ultimate in Furry caregivers. The Halfway House, in particular, was for anyone who needed a paw up, until they could live on their own. Transitions were put in their special care, because most former humans still had fond memories of pet cats, dogs, hamsters and such. Thus, their anthromorphic cousins were ideal to care for them.

I was back to walking with a cane, my ear plugs and ointment ready. I was as ready as the hospital could make me, but it's a pretty sterile, isolated environment, compared to the world outside. It would take a couple of months, readjusting, before I could bound around like a deer, and no one would know I'd once been human. Quite frankly, I'm looking forward to the challenge. 

Oh, they never did find out what was wrong with my arms. I may need to wear some form of bandage around them, for the rest of my life. Right now, I don't really care. Dave is out there, somewhere, and I intend to find him! 

*Click*