The moment I cut the thick rope that kept Batym from the pole was more than just a movement. He barely flinched and made no attempt to run, as if the sound of the scissors meant the beginning of a new life for him. When I cut the last thread that bound him, the rope fell to the ground. He didn’t run away, but remained close, his head lowered, as if searching for the scent of freedom.
I touched his head—his fur was disheveled, sticky, and musty, as if rain and darkness had haunted him for a long time. He didn’t flinch, but took a deep breath, like a man breathing fresh air for the first time after a long period of confinement.
We headed toward the illuminated street. His steps were slow and cautious, as if he were learning to walk again without shackles. I hailed a taxi. The driver eyed the animal with prejudiced interest, but, turning on the heater, drove us to the veterinary clinic.
The veterinarian, a middle-aged woman, examined the animal and noted, «It’s clearly severely emaciated. His fur is in te.r ŕible condition, and there’s a deep rope w.o ∪nd on his neck. How long has he been here?»
I replied that I didn’t know, but I had found him tied up. His assistants immediately began treating him. The matted fur had to be cut away, as red, inflamed skin was hidden beneath. Most of the fur was removed, leaving a s.c αr on his neck, a reminder of the ordeal. I realized the rope had left its mark not only on his body, but also on his soul.
«What’s his name?» one of the nurses asked. Without hesitation, I answered, «Bat.» The name no longer evoked associations with pun.i śhment; it symbolized the behavior that had allowed him to survive the te.r ŕible ordeal and finally be rescued.
For the first few days, he rarely approached food.
He was afraid of strangers and hid in the corner of his cage.
But gradually, it became noticeable that he was beginning to trust: the first gentle nudge, the first cautious twitch of his tail. One day, when I leaned over to pet him through the bars, he touched my hand with his forehead—that first moment of trust. Later, Bat’s story began to spread on social media: people wrote with indignation and a desire to help. Donations for his treatment were pouring in, and some offered shelter. One comment particularly touched me: «He’s not an object anymore—he has a life now.»
A few weeks passed, and his fur began to grow back—it became soft and light. The s.c αr on his neck remained, but his gaze noticeably changed: fear gave way to cautious curiosity.
When it came time to look for a permanent home, it turned out there were several candidates: a young couple, a family with a teenager, and a single woman. However, the final decision was up to Bat himself.
Every day, an elderly woman, Mrs. Galina, a former teacher, came to the clinic. She would sit next to his cage and read aloud to him: first, poems by Tuwim, then stories by Sienkiewicz. Bat listened attentively, his eyes never leaving his side.
On the day he was allowed to leave foster care, he flicked his tail for the first time in his life, as if remembering that this was possible. Mrs. Galina quietly said, «My husband left long ago. I know what it’s like to wait.» Since then, Bat has lived in her small house on the outskirts. Every day they go out into the garden: he runs through the grass, exposing his neck to the sunlight. The rope never weighs him down again.
Sometimes I visit them. I see him resting on the porch, breathing evenly, and I understand—it all started with one step: when I stopped where others passed by.
Result: one soul, snatched from oblivion, became part of a world filled with compassion, not h.a ŧred. Small actions—one saved animal, one story, one person who stopped—change destinies.
Now there’s another saved life in this world.
Conclusion: The power of compassion is simple yet powerful: sometimes a single gesture is enough to give someone the chance to breathe freely. We have the power to notice and save—and every life saved matters.➕
