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The plane battled through wall after wall of icy precipitation on its descent into the city. A growing unease had accompanied me during the flight, only deepening as I walked through the airport. I resented returning to the place where I had been raised, after making a home on the opposite end of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a short while, I headed out to get a my hair cut. My mind was far away, back across an sea, when I heard something strike the ground. I glanced down to see a rock dove on its side, splayed out, and trembling.

The impact occurred just as children were streaming out from the local elementary school and so within moments a small chorus of youngsters had assembled, surrounded by their parents. This group of confused faces peered down at the bird, unsure what to say or do. The kids were more decisive: “Daddy, she needs help, can we call an ambulance?” I slipped off my jacket, crouched down and gently lifted the pigeon into it. “No problem, love, the gentleman will look after her!” exclaimed one parent with a sigh of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, against its will, as I had a few days before.

I walked slowly home, arms held out, with the bird curled up inside the garment.

I had no idea that my impromptu decision to rescue my feathered charge (the name I gave my patient) would direct me to a web of city dwellers sacrificing significant amounts of effort to provide not only transport for city pigeons but scans, respite care, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I located a shoebox for Belinda, lined it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to make brief contact.

Those moments of shared bewilderment punctuated my frantic search for what to do from there. I phoned friends for advice and one recommended trying Facebook, where, to my surprise, I found a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and put in a request to become a member.

A Grassroots Network

With a large membership, the group follows an decentralized system: someone in Manchester finds an hurt pigeon, a urgent post is created, then a comment section “assessment” follows. If the bird is considered in need of an scan, someone with a vet link can organize it; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabber” will offer to foster the bird.

Carers each have their own carefully cultivated expertise, whether it’s mending broken wings or dressing wounds. Their tremendous, collective effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on kindness.

Belinda was rapidly assessed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and assigned to a rehabber who would provide pain relief and a regimen of patient physio. We never discovered exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I assumed the role of bird taxi once more, taking the light rail across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could get the attention she required.

An Unexpected Lesson

After discovering this secret pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my hometown. I am skeptical any of the places I had called home while away could boast anything even close. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d witnessed one plummet from the sky into the playground of my old school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the gall to scoop it up and take it to safety.

The friend in question has since passed away – one of four friends to die in the years before my leaving from Manchester. I realised that this had been a significant factor of what had made the return so difficult.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a history as “therapy” animals, especially in the North. Workers started to raise the birds because they gave them solace and an excuse to look up at the open air between long shifts of underground work. During the economic downturn, workers on the assistance also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “social malaise”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often dismissed as stupid, dirty or a general nuisance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a animal doctor, who told me: “if you bring it here, leave that in the lot and we’ll end its life.”

It? Not our Belinda. Although not expected to ever soar , she has taken to her newly grounded life with aplomb in a volunteer’s home. Each contented coo, often elicited by her favourite snack, frozen peas, feels like a example in perseverance and resilience – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me a different facet to the city I was familiar with.