Jade Fern Grove who cut off their tails with a carving knife

anyone!

His first week home had been spent in the confines of his den more or less. Gradually, he had left it, and tried to exist in the world outside its protective walls without his eyes. It was an arduous process, wrought with anxiety and a perpetual state of fear in which he was compelled to flee at the slightest provocation. Now, entering the third week, the resilience of youth was shining through the hopeless pessimism and grumpiness that characterized his old soul personality. His heart no longer drummed frantically in his breast when he stepped outside, and he was learning to depend on his ears, nose, and tactile senses. His comfort in this new life was a bud beginning to open.

The ground surrounding his den was tamped down by his paws, and he had more or less memorized that area. He navigated this with ease, albeit with slow, careful steps. Even when he could see he was notoriously clumsy, and this trait haunted him still. It was late evening as he started to press outward, to expand his 'territory'. Strangely, it was evenings and at night that he felt most at ease. The stillness of the world made it easier for him to process his surroundings. Sounds seemed louder and scents, stronger. Perhaps not so strangely, it was his plant knowledge that helped him the most to rehabilitate.

When he was a pup, before he could think or do much of anything, he had been drawn to plants, and he had interacted with them as though he had a thousand times before. He clipped them, dried them and stored them with nimble prowess. Now blind, he found he could still work with them without thought, without his eyes. In this, he took the most comfort. In this, he found a shred of normalcy to hold on to. So, as he circled further away from his den, his nose was down among the greenery, searching for herbs.