When I saw him curled up in the middle of the road, dazed and still breathing, I didn’t think twice. I picked him up gently, wrapped him in a soft cloth, and brought him home. A rat — wounded, shivering, confused. Just a rat, some would say.

But not to me.

His fur was matted, his tiny body scraped and bruised, his breathing shallow. I’ve taken in many animals before — birds with broken wings, kittens tossed out like trash, dogs left behind when their “humans” moved on. But this? This little rat opened something in me I didn’t realize still needed opening.

A few days ago, I came across a post online. Someone proudly shared a photo of their dog after killing a rat, joking about how “he squeezed the last squeak out of it.” The comment section? Laughter. Jokes. Heartless humor.

I stayed silent for a moment, heart clenched — but then I couldn’t. I wrote back, “That animal felt fear. It felt pain. It wanted to live.”

I don’t say this to shame anyone. I know — truly, I know — that infestations and safety must be addressed. But must we forget empathy while doing it?

The rat now sleeps in a warm box next to my heater. I’ve named him “Ash,” for the way he looked when I found him — as if rising from the cinders of something cruel. He lets me feed him with a dropper. He flinches when I reach too fast. But I see it in his eyes — the will to live.

He doesn’t know he’s “just” a rat.

He only knows that when he was broken and bleeding, someone stopped. Someone cared.

And that is the only difference between life and death sometimes — not size, not species, not worth — but the simple act of being seen.

So yes, I saved a rat.
And in doing so, I hope I reminded at least one person that every life, no matter how small, deserves a chance to be safe, warm, and loved.