"Gull" by Mark Mcwatt
My son brought home a seagull with a damaged wing his mother and sister helped him fuss over it and feed the wild, ungrateful thing. They treated the raw, unfeathered patch and tied the drooping limb to its body with strip of cloth; deciding not to name him yet, they placed him for the night in a shoebox lined with an old towel complete with plastic tot of water and two smelly sprats, procured with difficulty at such short warning. The boy guessed all would be right, come morning. In fact the thing died. When I checked before breakfast, it was stiff, and rank death had already attracted a phalanx of tiny ants. My son said nothing; looked at it awhile, then dealt it an almighty kick, box and all and sent it crashing into the opposite wall. so much for the nameless bird. sister and mother were aghast, upset he could be so uncaring. But l understood why he kicked it and aproved, beneath the mandatory frown. I think it's right to ...