He crouched.
For a moment, he remained there.
Then both hind legs compressed beneath him.
He launched.
The jump lasted less than a second.
Miles landed on the next branch.
His injured hind leg touched down with the others.
He steadied himself with his tail and continued moving.
It was the kind of ordinary squirrel movement most people would never think twice about.
For Miles, it was a major test.
Soon he was doing it again.
And again.
We continued watching closely for any return of guarding, weakness, altered movement, or reluctance after activity.
Recovery needed to hold up under repetition.
One good jump couldn't prove that.
Meanwhile, another part of Miles's rehabilitation was progressing exactly as we hoped.
He became increasingly unwilling to tolerate our presence.
The nearly motionless squirrel from intake had once allowed people nearby because he had very little choice.
The stronger Miles became, the less cooperative he was.
He retreated.
He hid.
He climbed away.
When someone entered his space, he preferred distance.
For a wild squirrel approaching release, that's good behavior.
We don't want Miles leaving rehabilitation believing that people are safe companions.
We want him to recognize us as something to avoid.
As direct care became less necessary, human contact was reduced accordingly.
His environment—not caregivers—became the center of his day.
Natural movement.
Foraging.
Climbing.
Cover.
Those were the things that mattered now.
At the time of this update, Miles looks dramatically different from the squirrel found beside the road.
The facial swelling has largely resolved.
The abrasions over his hip have healed, although the coat in that area is still filling back in.
Most importantly, he is using the injured hind leg.
He walks on it.
Pushes with it.
Climbs with it.
And he has begun using it during controlled jumping and landing.