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The plane battled through wall after wall of icy precipitation during the approach into Manchester. A sinking feeling had accompanied me during the trip, only deepening as I walked through the arrivals hall. I felt bitter over returning to the city where I had been raised, after making a home on the far side of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.

After a few days, I headed out to get a my hair cut. My thoughts was distant, back across an sea, when I became aware of something strike the ground. I gazed down to see a bird on its side, splayed out, and twitching.

The fall took place just as kids were emerging from the local grade school and so within a short time a small chorus of little ones had formed, accompanied by their mums and dads. This group of confused faces looked down at the pigeon, uncertain what to do or say. The kids were more certain: “Dad, she needs hospital, can we call an emergency service?” I removed my jacket, crouched down and scooped the pigeon inside it. “It’s okay, sweet, the nice man will take care of her!” remarked one parent with a sigh of relief. I had turned into the rescue vehicle for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, against its will, as I had a short time earlier.

I walked slowly home, arms stiffly extended, with the bird curled up inside the garment.

Unbeknownst to me that my on-the-spot decision to aid Belinda (the name I chose for my patient) would lead me to a community of Mancunians giving up significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for city pigeons but diagnostic imaging, respite care, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I retrieved a shoebox for Belinda, lined it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d open the box just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.

Those periods of mutual perplexity interrupted my hectic search for what to do from there. I phoned friends for advice and one recommended trying online groups, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and sent a request to participate.

A Community Effort

Over 3,000-strong, the group operates on an organic system: someone in Manchester finds an injured pigeon, a pleading post is published, then a comment section “triage” takes place. If the bird is judged in need of an examination, someone with a connection to a clinic can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabilitator” will offer to foster the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own finely honed skills, whether it’s mending broken wings or dressing wounds. Their momentous, collective effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on volunteerism.

Belinda was promptly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a concussion, and matched with a rehabber who would provide comfort and a program of gentle physio. We never found out exactly what made 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 box on my lap so she could get the treatment she deserved.

A New Perspective

After stumbling across this secret pigeon “support system”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my city. I question any of the places I had called home while away could have anything even close. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon aid mission: almost 20 years earlier I’d witnessed one drop from the sky into the grounds of my old school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the nerve to rescue it and take it to security.

The individual has since been lost – one of a number of companions to lose their lives in the years before my leaving from Manchester. I understood that this had been a big part of what had made coming back so painful.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a history as “companion” animals, especially in the north of England. Workers started to keep the birds because they gave them comfort and an reason to stare at the open air between long shifts of darkness below. During the Depression, workers on the assistance also found a distraction in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “despair”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often disparaged as stupid, unclean or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had spoken to a vet, who told me: “if you bring that here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll put it down.”

The bird? Not her. Although improbable to ever fly again , she has adapted to her newly earthbound life with success in a volunteer’s home. Each happy sound, often elicited by her favourite treat, frozen peas, feels like a demonstration in adaptability and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for unveiling for me another side to the city I thought I knew.