This is a story that could surely be retold with different characters and settings, yet it feels familiar to nearly everyone.
It’s a story about compassion. The fairy-tale opening, “Once upon a time, there was a boy,” fits perfectly here. Because there was indeed a boy, though his life wasn’t exactly joyful. His parents cared for him, but they rarely read to him, never told him bedtime stories, and his mother never once sang him a lullaby. All he knew as a preschooler was the television.
But the TV showed a different world. In reality, he lived without friends. Quiet by nature, his parents did little to nurture his social skills, and they considered this normal. What complaints could anyone have, they thought, when both of them worked hard? Nothing fell into their laps. There were no wealthy relatives leaving inheritances. So, they had to work to ensure there was always food on the table and clothes to wear. On their days off, they just wanted to catch up on sleep. A trip to the circus or zoo? Out of the question—those weren’t free. Better to spend that money on something practical.
It’s not fair to judge such parents. They deserve empathy. They grew up the same way, with no other example to follow, so they raised their son in their own image. But the boy had a sensitive soul. Perhaps everyone is born with such a soul. It only hardens later if the adults around aren’t gentle, as his father used to say. He said it the first time when his son brought home a tiny, barely-eyed kitten from the street. The boy wanted to explain how he’d heard its pitiful cries in the bushes and couldn’t leave it alone. He’d honestly searched for its mother or father, but they were nowhere to be found. The kitten stuck out its tiny tongue, as if begging for water—or maybe milk. When his father opened the door, the boy immediately held out the kitten.
— Not this, too! — his father said. — Take it back where you found it!
His father called for his wife. Seeing the kitten, she threw up her hands:
— Who gave you permission to bring half-dead, flea-ridden kittens into this house? Take it away right now! I don’t want to see it!
Take it away? Where? Back to the bushes? But his mother had already pushed him out the door. He walked down the stairs, clutching the kitten, feeling its little heart beating. And he cried.
On the first floor, a door opened. It was Grandma Eleanor, who lived alone and rarely went outside because she was very old. She heard his sobs.
— Tommy, what’s wrong?
He showed her the kitten.
— Wait, let me get my glasses, — she said.
She returned with her glasses perched on her forehead and began examining the kitten.
— Where are you taking it? — she asked. — It won’t survive on its own.
— I wanted to keep it at home. But Mom and Dad won’t let me. They told me to take it back where I found it. I found it in the bushes. It was crying, and no one was around…
— Well, come in, Tommy! — Grandma Eleanor invited him.
That’s when Tommy first saw how to feed a tiny, half-blind kitten. Grandma Eleanor poured a little milk into a glass and took a dropper. Drop by drop, she fed the kitten. And it liked it! It drank every bit.
— Tommy, — said Grandma Eleanor, — let it stay with me. I can’t keep it forever—if I pass away, what then? But I’ll help it get stronger. If none of the neighbors take it, I’ll ask our janitor to find a cat shelter for it. Don’t cry, dear! I won’t hurt the kitten! Come visit it.
— Can I not tell Mom and Dad that I didn’t throw it away?
— Exactly, don’t tell them. And I won’t give you away. You did a good thing, saving it. The kitten isn’t to blame for being an orphan…
Tommy slowly climbed the stairs home, wondering why he didn’t have a Grandma Eleanor. He didn’t have any grandparents at all. Just his mom and dad. And they’d sent the kitten away…
The next morning, Tommy visited Grandma Eleanor. She greeted him with:
— Your kitten’s doing fine. Slept all night, didn’t meow. Only this morning—it was asking for milk. It ate and went back to sleep.
— Can I see it? — Tommy asked.
— Of course! It’s sleeping in a box, on my warm scarf to make it cozy.
As an adult, Thomas never forgot Grandma Eleanor. She was the only one among everyone he knew who cared for animals, nursed them as best she could, fed them, and found homes for them, either with people or at shelters. She never abandoned them. And it was Grandma Eleanor who gave Thomas his first lesson in compassion.
When Tommy went out to the courtyard and saw the other kids, he approached them. He wanted to tell them about the kitten—how the little thing drank milk drop by drop from a dropper and then slept soundly. But as soon as he started, the kids said:
— Go play with your mangy kittens! You’re weird. Do you feel sorry for worms, too? Or rats? We’re playing war, and we don’t need softies like you.
They left for another courtyard. Tommy already knew the kids didn’t want to be friends with him. Why? Maybe because his dad wouldn’t let him lend his bike to other kids? Or because when Tommy saw a sparrow fallen from its nest, he didn’t step on it but carried it aside to bury? No, Tommy had acquaintances, boys and girls, but only temporary ones. Lasting friendships didn’t happen—they lived too far from his home. To say he was bored alone would be untrue. He became a bookworm early on. Here’s how it happened.
One day, he was leaving his apartment at the same time as a neighbor. She was carrying two heavy stacks of books and said to Tommy:
— Look what your internet’s done! Books are suddenly useless. I don’t get it… But my family told me to give them away or take them somewhere far off… So, I’m carrying them!
Tommy had maybe ten books at the time. His parents didn’t buy him any, saying they were too expensive. He didn’t have a computer either and didn’t expect to get one. So, he gathered his courage and asked:
— Can I have your books?
— Tommy, you can, and you can again! Take them! Now I don’t have to lug them anywhere…
In that moment, Tommy became a book-rich kid. That’s when he first read about Doctor Dolittle. The book was odd—it didn’t flip open but unfolded, each new page revealing a picture. Thomas realized it was for younger kids, but it was so fascinating! Then he found White Fang. He read it in two days, unable to put it down. He was afraid to read in front of his parents, though—they might scold him for bringing home someone else’s discarded books. Then he read everything. He stopped when he couldn’t read through his tears: it was Old Yeller.
Oh, the tears he shed! He recognized so many people in the characters, even his parents. Luckily, the next book was Thumbelina. He’d always loved swallows, so how could this one not charm him? When Thumbelina nursed the swallow back to health, it carried her far away to a land of happiness. But Thomas didn’t hold a grudge against the mole—he pitied its blindness. Then he read The Lady with the Dog. He didn’t cry this time. “I wonder,” Thomas thought, “was she better off as Lady or as Fido?” He didn’t skip The White Poodle either. And how clever and noble was Artie from The Adventures of Pinocchio! He was Malvina’s most loyal friend. Though Thomas knew The Golden Key was a fairy tale, he believed in Artie’s intelligence and loyalty forever. In short, Thomas read every book he got from the neighbor. One day, he asked her:
— Who in your family loved animal stories? There are so many! And they’re so interesting! It makes me sad that everyone loved these books, grew up on them, cried or cheered at the happy endings, but now they’re glued to computers, watching movies. I’m not arguing—Beethoven is a great movie, and Hachi is amazing. But our books are just as good. Have you read about Bulka?
— We don’t have that book.
— You probably don’t have a computer either. You can read it online. Go to the library and get Tolstoy. You’ll love it!
Unexpectedly, Thomas signed up for the local children’s library. He didn’t want to tell his parents—he doubted they’d approve of him borrowing books. What if he lost one? He’d have to pay three or five times its cost. Since he didn’t tell his parents and couldn’t provide their IDs, he was limited to the reading room. But that was fine! An hour or two every other day in the reading room, and his parents didn’t notice. There, he discovered books on dog training. Thomas hadn’t known it was a whole science…
Now Tommy didn’t want to play with the other kids—he was too busy. Though he really wanted to share what he’d read. He managed to tell Grandma Eleanor about Old Yeller. Three years earlier, she’d given away the now-strong, fluffy kitten Thomas had found in the bushes, asking the janitor to take it to a shelter. Thomas knew the kitten wouldn’t go hungry there, and mean kids wouldn’t tie a can to its tail or lock it in a basement.
Then Grandma Eleanor fell gravely ill. An ambulance took her to the hospital, and she never returned—she passed away. New people moved into her apartment, but Thomas didn’t visit them.
In seventh grade, Thomas was allowed to leave the courtyard, but he had a strict curfew: no later than 8 p.m. in winter, 9 p.m. in summer. He visited every pet store in the area, became a regular at two dog kennels, and was known at the vet clinic, where he eagerly helped during appointments. That’s when his dream took shape: to become a Doctor Dolittle, a veterinarian. But he didn’t talk about it at home. Not long ago, he’d gotten a scolding from his parents. His mother, coming home from work, had caught him in what she called a wild act: Thomas was saving a fly from a spiderweb. He was tangled in the web himself but kept gently freeing the fly, which buzzed desperately. He even murmured:
— Hang in there, Fly-Buzz-Buzz! One wing’s free. I’ll get the other out soon…
Seeing and hearing this, his mother shouted across the courtyard:
— Thomas! Are you normal? Is your head on straight? Show me one other person who’d save a fly! March home and into the bathroom! Wash everything you’re wearing. I’m not cleaning your clothes after that web and fly!
Luckily, Thomas had freed the fly’s second wing, and it flew away. Otherwise, his mom might’ve swatted it. When she told his father what she’d caught Thomas doing, he said:
— Be glad I didn’t see it! What’s in your head? All the boys are normal, but my son’s a doctor to every creature. Study to be a zookeeper, then. At least we’ll have meat and milk.
Thomas understood the milk part: cows exist to give milk. But meat? He didn’t dare ask. Later, he figured it out himself. From then on, he stopped eating burgers, saying he didn’t like spicy food.
— Don’t make things up! — his mother said. — Burgers need garlic, onion, and pepper. If you don’t want them, eat the side dish. Your father will get more burgers. I don’t have time to cook separately for you.
Then a new circus opened in their city. Thomas started going there after school, standing by the fence to watch them walk the performing dogs, mostly poodles. They acted like true friends with each other and understood their trainer’s every word. It was clear they were well cared for—clean and groomed.
Once, a famous animal trainer arrived with his “Cat Theater.” The cats went out for a walk during the day, and Thomas saw one that looked strikingly like the kitten he’d brought to Grandma Eleanor. Unlike the dogs that had romped in the enclosure an hour earlier, the cats strolled gracefully. True performers of the cat theater!
Thomas began reading about animal circuses and learned so much! That’s when his dream of becoming a vet wavered. Then he got fascinated by parrots. For six months, a stunning parrot named Alex lived in a large, beautiful cage at the pet store. Many probably wanted to buy him, but Alex was very expensive. Besides, he wasn’t doing badly there. He certainly wasn’t hungry. Customers buying food for their cats or dogs often asked the clerk if they could treat Alex and with what. The clerk allowed it. Alex would sometimes turn up his beak, accepting some treats and rejecting others. But everyone forgave him when he started reciting poetry. He’d begin softly: “By the seashore stands an oak tree green,” then raise his voice and shout, “And with them their uncle from the sea!” That wasn’t the end, but Alex always stopped there. Thomas desperately wanted to know if he knew the rest.
Thomas also got to know sparrows. The last winter had been harsh, and he hadn’t realized those little birds were starving and freezing without food. One day, walking home from school, he saw an old man with his grandson, about six years old. The boy was already saving birds, with his grandfather’s help. The man was attaching a plastic bottle with a hole cut out to a tree. Once it was secure, he lifted his grandson, who put pieces of fat into the hole. How the sparrows knew about it was a mystery to Thomas, but three swooped in, dipped their heads into the hole, grabbed a piece of fat, and perched on a nearby branch. Then they dove back for more…
Thomas asked the grandfather what else sparrows could eat. The man replied:
— I’m not sure. I do what my own grandfather did. He fed sparrows every winter, and they’d chirp when they saw him… Better not risk it—stick to fat, but make sure it’s not too salty.
Thomas went home, found an empty plastic bottle, cut a hole in it, and looked for rope or wire. He couldn’t find wire, so he risked cutting a piece from the clothesline on the balcony. Then he risked again: he opened the fridge and took a piece of fat.
— If Mom notices, I’m in big trouble. But… she knows I don’t eat fat.
He cut a piece, sliced it into small strips, and hid it with the bottle-feeder and rope in his backpack. His mother didn’t notice the missing fat. But she noticed something else: when she went to the balcony to hang kitchen towels, she saw the clothesline was nearly gone. She needed that piece—when there was a lot of laundry, she’d tie it perpendicular to the other line. His mother always noticed everything. She came back and went straight to Thomas:
— Why did you take the rope?
Thomas wasn’t ready for such quick exposure. He didn’t want to lie but was afraid to tell the truth—then she’d find out about the fat. Still, he had to lie. He made up a story about cutting the rope to take a stray dog to a shelter. His mother seemed to believe him but said:
— Couldn’t someone else have taken it?
Thomas stayed silent. He just wanted morning to come. He’d leave right after his parents and, before school, set up the feeder at the far end of the park, near the school.
But he didn’t expect two classmates to catch him at it. They also walked to school through the park and saw what Thomas was doing. The girls exchanged a conspiratorial glance, grabbed Thomas’s backpack from under the tree, and ran off. He noticed, but not right away. He couldn’t stop setting up the feeder—he was almost done. After finishing, he went to school without his backpack.
When he entered the classroom, he knew he’d face a barrage of cruel jokes. He was right. His classmates surrounded him, and it began:
— Here comes Birdie’s buddy!
— You’re feeding them to roast them later?
— Why do you do this, Thomas? Those sparrows poop everywhere. I ruined my new sneakers because of them!
The chaos stopped when the teacher walked in. She demanded to know what the fuss was about. The girls who’d taken Thomas’s backpack explained. According to them, Thomas was breaking branches to set up his feeder. In the summer, they claimed, the trees wouldn’t provide shade. And who knew what he was putting in the feeder? What if it was harmful to the squirrels living there? It was a shame Thomas had such a teacher. She listened only to the girls and didn’t give Thomas a chance to explain. She was swayed by the story of the broken branches and called his parents to school.
It was the first time they’d been summoned. Thomas knew what awaited him at home. He’d be grounded—no leaving the house except for school. How long the punishment would last, his father would decide. But Thomas already knew the sparrows wouldn’t find any fat in the feeder tomorrow. They’d keep coming, hungry and cold. Spring was still far off, with no bugs or larvae yet. He imagined the birds slowly dying. So, he rebelled. He took his piggy bank, shook out all the coins, and bought fat at the store with every cent, asking the clerk to cut it into small pieces. The clerk looked at him curiously. Thomas didn’t lie this time. He said it was for sparrows, for a feeder. She smiled:
— When I was in school, I fed sparrows in winter, too. You probably took that money from your piggy bank, didn’t you? All of it?
Thomas didn’t lie: — Yeah, every penny.
— Don’t worry! Come back tomorrow. I’ll pay for the fat. And thank you! It’s hard for birds that don’t fly south in winter. You’re doing great!
So, Thomas had fat in his backpack again. This time, to avoid his lying classmates, he went to school first. He checked his backpack several times to ensure the fat was still there. It was right where he’d put it at the store. Before the last class, he told the teacher he had a bad headache. They sent him to the nurse, and, unbelievably, the thermometer showed a real fever. They sent Thomas home, telling him to call an ambulance or, at the least, a doctor the next day. The main thing was, he was going home and could feed the sparrows on the way.
Thomas told his mother right away that he’d been sent home from school with a fever. She got worried. She loved her son, but within limits. Her own parents never hugged or kissed her, so she was the same with her son. He wasn’t a girl, after all—what need for affection? She’d never had pets, so why should her son? They just brought worms and fleas. But now, she wasn’t thinking about that—Thomas was sick. She’d rub him down, give him tea with raspberry jam, and put mustard in his socks—that would help. She’d check his temperature in the morning. If he still had a fever, she’d call a doctor. If not, he could skip school for one day, then back to studies. Thomas had to miss feeding the sparrows for a day. He didn’t leave the house.
The next day, Thomas got lucky: on his way to school, he ran into the grandfather and grandson. He told them he’d hung a feeder at the other end of the park but couldn’t feed the birds every day—his parents thought it was frivolous. The grandfather grunted but said nothing about that. Instead, he asked where exactly Thomas had placed the feeder. Thomas showed him.
— Don’t worry, — the grandfather said. — We’ll put your sparrows on our feeding list.
And so Thomas would’ve lived, occasionally deceiving his parents to help a stray animal or bird. But something unexpected happened: a crow turned everything upside down. An ordinary city crow. Black. Loud. Much bigger than sparrows, swallows, pigeons, or even doves. Here’s how it went.
Thomas was walking home through the park, looking around and at his feet—a habit that helped him spot those in trouble. As he walked, he noticed a crow in the grass off the path. It sat awkwardly, staring with its beady eyes. It didn’t caw. And it didn’t fly away.
— Are you that brave? Not scared of me? — Thomas leaned toward the crow.
Whether he imagined it or not, it seemed like there were tears in the crow’s eyes.
— What’s wrong? — Thomas reached out.
The crow didn’t run or fly. It flapped only one wing. The other was broken or injured.
— You’ll die out here! — Thomas said to the crow. — If a dog or cat finds you, that’s it! You can’t fly or run! Let me help you!
And then Thomas realized the bird understood him. It didn’t struggle when he picked it up. Exhausted, it pressed its healthy wing against him and went still. He’d promised to help, but Thomas didn’t know how. He turned and headed to the vet clinic. There, they worked their magic, putting a sort of splint on the crow’s broken wing, and said:
— We can’t keep her here. We don’t have a single cage. She can’t fly or run, so she needs care—feeding, watering, looking after. So, kid, take her home and care for her. The injury’s serious but not fatal. Can you handle it?
Thomas nodded, almost automatically. On the way home, he realized there was no guarantee his parents would let him keep the bird until it healed. But there was no turning back. He brought the crow home, gave it water, and tossed in some crumbs. The crow didn’t eat but drank and quieted down, probably sleeping. The pain must’ve eased with the splint. Then his parents came home from work, and all hell broke loose.
— You’ve picked up everything under the sun, — his mother said angrily. — But to bring a crow into this house! It’s not a bird—it’s a bandit and a glutton. It’ll turn the whole place upside down!
Thomas tried to explain that the crow’s wing was broken, that it wouldn’t survive without protection.
— Some protector you are, — his father cut in. — There are wild animals, but there are also bandit birds. This is one of them. Even with a bad wing. Take it away, now!
— We can’t abandon her! — Thomas was on the verge of tears. — Please let her stay until her wing heals! I’ll release her after.
— Thomas, enough! I’m fed up! If you’re not turning this place into a dog pound, it’s a crow colony. Take it away, like we said. If you feel so sorry for it, leave it in the hallway! — his mother was shouting now.
— Then I’ll stay in the hallway, too! — Thomas hadn’t expected himself to say that.
He hadn’t expected his parents’ response either:
— Don’t threaten us! If that crow means more to you than your parents, go live in the hallway! — his father said.
Thomas took the crow and a saucer of water and left. He still hoped his parents would call him back right away—it was the first time they’d sent him to live in the hallway. But they held firm—no one came out of the apartment until late evening. Thomas sat on the stairs with the crow but didn’t abandon her. He was afraid he’d have to spend the night there. But what did the crow have to do with it? Finally, his parents relented. It’s worth saying again that they loved their son, but in a strange way. Like in an old joke: they loved him here, but not there. They cared for him, but only within the limits they deemed necessary. They didn’t see their son’s passion as necessary. But they hadn’t expected this turn of events. They waved the white flag—they gave in.
They called Thomas back home, allowing the crow to stay until it recovered. They had to endure it for a whole two months. But they didn’t bring up kicking the crow out—they remembered how their son had defended it. The day came when Thomas took the crow to the vet. After examining the wing, the vet praised Thomas first, then the bird:
— You took good care of her, kid! And you, crow, must’ve listened to him. Look at you, all recovered! Your feathers could be in a show. She’s healthy now. Where will you release her? In the park?
Thomas thought about it and decided to release her from his window. If something went wrong, it’d be easier for her to return.
— Makes sense! — the vet said.
Thomas came home, unsure whether to wait for his parents to release the crow in their presence or to surprise them with the news that she’d flown away. He decided to wait.
But neither his mom nor his dad wanted to watch the crow leave their apartment through the window. The next morning, Thomas sprinkled some food on the windowsill, just in case. He hadn’t even stepped away when the crow flew in and started pecking at it, glancing at Thomas. From then on, every morning, like clockwork, the crow came for breakfast. She recognized the window without fail. When his mother changed the curtains, Thomas wondered if the crow would find it. She did, immediately.
One night, deep in the night when Thomas and his parents were asleep, a persistent tapping came from the window. Then the tapping turned into loud, incessant cawing. It was impossible not to hear. Everyone in the apartment did. When they woke, they noticed a strange smell coming from the kitchen…
His father leapt up and ran to the kitchen. Flames were blazing. The curtain was burning, along with the napkins his mother usually left on the windowsill, and the tablecloth was starting to catch. They later learned the fire was caused by faulty wiring. Thomas’s father and Thomas, who bravely rushed to help, managed to put it out. By the time the firefighters arrived, there was nothing left for them to do…
— Thank you, crow! — his mother said, opening Thomas’s bedroom window.
But the crow had already flown away. She’d saved them—Thomas and his parents. And maybe not just them—if they hadn’t woken, the fire could’ve spread to other apartments.
Now, instead of Thomas, his mother might sprinkle food on the windowsill for the crow, or his father might do it. They even open the window while the crow eats, inviting her inside. She’s accepted a few times, circling the apartment without making a mess. Now Thomas’s parents no longer object to the animals he continues to rescue from trouble.
For Thomas’s birthday, they gave him a toy poodle. He couldn’t believe his eyes, but it was real. His parents had become warmer, kinder to animals. They still tell the story of how a crow saved them. And his mother now often says that all living things have a right to life.
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