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Our aircraft forced its way through layer after layer of icy precipitation on its descent into the city. A sinking feeling had accompanied me during the journey, only deepening as I shuffled through the airport. I resented coming back to the city where I had grown up, after living on the far side of the world for what had felt like a lifetime.

After a short while, I ventured out to get a haircut. My mind was far away, lingering over an ocean, when I heard something smack into the sidewalk. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its back, spatchcocked, and convulsing.

The crash occurred just as schoolchildren were streaming out from the local primary school and so within moments a group of little ones had assembled, surrounded by their parents. This group of bemused faces stared down at the pigeon, not knowing what to say or do. The kids were more certain: “Papa, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I removed my jacket, knelt down and scooped the pigeon into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the gentleman will take care of her!” exclaimed one parent with a audible relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, unintentionally, as I had a few days before.

I made my way home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird nestled inside the coat.

I had no idea that my spontaneous decision to aid the bird (the name I gave my new friend) would direct me to a network of city dwellers giving up significant amounts of time to provide not only rescue services for feral pigeons but scans, recovery care, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I found a shoebox for Belinda, prepared it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those moments of shared bewilderment punctuated my hectic search for what to do from there. I phoned friends for guidance and one recommended trying online groups, where, to my surprise, I stumbled upon a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and put in a request to become a member.

A Community Effort

With a large membership, the group has an decentralized model: someone in Manchester stumbles across an hurt pigeon, a urgent post is made, then a comment section “assessment” follows. If the bird is deemed in need of an scan, someone with a veterinary contact can arrange it; if it needs therapy, a “rehabber” will volunteer to foster the bird.

Carers each have their own finely honed expertise, whether it’s repairing broken wings or treating wounds. Their momentous, combined effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on volunteerism.

Belinda was quickly diagnosed with brain trauma, likely a blow to the head, and assigned to a rehabber who would provide comfort and a course of patient physio. We never found out exactly what made her to plummet. I took up the role of bird taxi once more, riding the streetcar across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could receive the care she deserved.

An Unexpected Lesson

After stumbling across this secret pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my home town. I doubt any of the places I had resided in while away could have anything even close. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been connected to a pigeon aid mission: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed one drop from the sky into the grounds of my secondary school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to security.

The friend in question has since been lost – one of a number of companions to pass away 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.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a history as “companion” animals, especially in the certain regions. Laborers started to keep the birds because they gave them company and an opportunity to stare at the open air between long shifts of darkness below. During the hard times, workers on the unemployment also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “idleness”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as unintelligent, unclean or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had contacted a vet, who told me: “if you bring the bird here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll end its life.”

It? Not her. Although improbable to ever soar , she has taken to her newly grounded life with aplomb in a volunteer’s home. Each contented coo, often caused by her favourite snack, 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 believed I understood.