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Our aircraft pushed through successive sheets of freezing rain on its descent into Manchester. A sinking feeling settled over me during the trip, intensifying as I made my way through the arrivals hall. I was unhappy about having to be the city where I had spent my youth, after residing on the other side of the world for what had felt like a lifetime.

After a couple of days, I ventured out to get a trim. My mind was far away, lingering over an ocean, when I was startled by something smack into the ground. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its wings, splayed out, and twitching.

The fall took place just as schoolchildren were streaming out from the local grade school and so within minutes a group of children had gathered, flanked by their mums and dads. This circle of bemused faces peered down at the creature, unsure what to think or act. The kids were more decisive: “Dad, she needs help, can we call an ambulance?” I took off my anorak, bent down and gently lifted the pigeon up into it. “No problem, love, the gentleman will help her!” said one parent with a sense of relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just come down hard, unintentionally, as I had a short time earlier.

I walked slowly home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird tucked safely inside the coat.

Unbeknownst to me that my impromptu decision to rescue Belinda (the name I bestowed upon my avian patient) would lead me to a web of local residents giving up significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for feral pigeons but X-rays, convalescence, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I found a shoebox for Belinda, placed inside it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those instances of mutual perplexity interrupted my desperate search for what to do from there. I called friends for guidance and one recommended trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I discovered a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and submitted a request to participate.

An Anarchic Model

With a large membership, the group has an decentralized model: someone in Manchester discovers an ailing pigeon, a heartfelt post is created, then a comment section “triage” takes place. If the bird is deemed in need of an examination, someone with a vet link can organize it; if it needs rehabilitation, a “carer” will step forward to care for the bird.

Carers each have their own finely honed specialities, whether it’s repairing broken wings or treating wounds. Their tremendous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on volunteerism.

Belinda was quickly diagnosed with brain trauma, likely a blow to the head, and assigned to a rehabber who would provide pain relief and a program of gentle physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to drop from above. I took up the role of pigeon ambulance once more, boarding the streetcar across the city with Belinda in a box on my lap so she could get the treatment she deserved.

An Unexpected Lesson

After stumbling across this secret pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much better about being back in my home town. I am skeptical any of the places I had called home while away could boast anything even close. It also dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been part of a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed one plummet from the sky into the playground of my high school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the nerve to scoop it up and take it to security.

The individual has since passed away – one of four friends to lose their lives in the years before my departure from Manchester. I came to see that this had been a big part of what had made returning home so hard.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a history as “emotional support” animals, especially in the north of England. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them comfort and an excuse to stare at the sky between long shifts of darkness below. During the economic downturn, workers on the unemployment also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “despair”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as stupid, diseased or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a veterinarian, who told me: “if you bring the bird here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll put it down.”

It? Not her. Although unlikely to ever fly again , she has adapted to her newly land-based life with grace in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each satisfied call, often caused by her favourite snack, peas, feels like a lesson in perseverance and resilience – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me another side to the city I believed I understood.