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The plane battled through successive sheets of sleet during the approach into its destination. A sense of dread had accompanied me during the flight, growing stronger as I walked through the airport. I was unhappy about having to be the city where I had been raised, after residing on the other side of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.

After a short while, I ventured out to get a haircut. My thoughts was miles away, lingering over an sea, when I became aware of something strike the pavement. I gazed down to see a bird on its wings, spatchcocked, and trembling.

The fall occurred just as children were filing out from the local primary school and so within a short time a group of children had formed, flanked by their mothers and fathers. This group of bemused faces stared down at the pigeon, unsure what to think or act. The kids were more definitive: “Daddy, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I slipped off my jacket, bent down and gently lifted the pigeon inside it. “It’s okay, love, the nice man will take care of her!” exclaimed one mother with a sigh of relief. I had been transformed into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just come down hard, involuntarily, as I had a couple of days prior.

I trudged home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird curled up inside the jacket.

Little did I know that my on-the-spot decision to medivac my feathered charge (the name I chose for my new friend) would direct me to a network of local residents devoting significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for street birds but scans, convalescence, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I found a cardboard box for Belinda, lined it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to make brief contact.

Those periods of shared perplexity marked my desperate search for what to do from there. I contacted friends for suggestions and one proposed trying online groups, where, to my astonishment, I stumbled upon a bird rehabilitation group, and put in a request to participate.

An Anarchic Model

Boasting thousands of members, the group has an decentralized method: someone in Manchester finds an injured pigeon, a urgent post is created, then a comment section “triage” takes place. If the bird is judged in need of an examination, someone with a veterinary contact can get it one; if it needs therapy, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to care for the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own finely honed expertise, whether it’s mending broken wings or treating wounds. Their momentous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on goodwill.

Belinda was quickly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a head injury, and assigned to a rehabber who would give medication and a program of gentle physio. We never discovered exactly what made her to drop from above. I resumed 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 receive the care she deserved.

Rediscovering Home

After finding this underground pigeon “support system”, I began to feel much better about being back in my home town. I doubt any of the places I had resided in while away could boast anything remotely similar. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been connected to a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed one plummet from the sky into the playground of my secondary school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to security.

The individual has since died – one of a number of companions to die in the years before my exit from Manchester. I understood that this had been a major reason of what had made the return so difficult.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a tradition as “emotional support” animals, especially in the certain regions. Miners started to care for the birds because they gave them solace and an reason to look up at the heavens between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the economic downturn, workers on the dole also found a distraction in pigeons, but keeping them was viewed as a sign of “idleness”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as stupid, diseased or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had contacted a animal doctor, who told me: “if you bring it here, leave it in the lot and we’ll euthanise it.”

The bird? Not her. Although unlikely to ever fly again , she has taken to her newly land-based life with aplomb in a volunteer’s home. Each satisfied call, often elicited by her favourite treat, peas, feels like a demonstration in perseverance and strength – and I am eternally thankful to her for unveiling for me a different facet to the city I was familiar with.