Why try to save a pigeon?

I loathe pigeons. “Skyrats,” I call them, and I annoy ’Pong by chasing them into oncoming buses. But yesterday we found a pigeon struggling to walk because its legs had become entangled in string or something — and we tried to catch it to set it free. Why did we bother? Logically, it’s inconsistent. What does that say about us?