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T pushed through layer after layer of sleet on its descent into the city. A sinking feeling had accompanied me during the flight, intensifying as I made my way through the terminal. I resented having to be the place where I had grown up, after making a home on the far side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a short while, I went out to get a trim. My thoughts was far away, back across an vast expanse of water, when I heard something hit the sidewalk. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its back, spatchcocked, and trembling.

The crash happened just as schoolchildren were emerging from the local grade school and so within moments a group of little ones had assembled, accompanied by their mums and dads. This circle of bemused faces peered down at the pigeon, unsure what to think or act. The kids were more decisive: “Papa, she needs a vet, can we call an animal ambulance?” I removed my jacket, bent down and picked up the pigeon into it. “It’s okay, dear, the nice man will help her!” exclaimed one parent with a sense of relief. I had become the rescue vehicle for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, unintentionally, as I had a few days before.

I walked slowly home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird nestled inside the jacket.

I had no idea that my spontaneous decision to aid the bird (the name I chose for my patient) would lead me to a network of local residents sacrificing significant amounts of effort to provide not only transport for feral pigeons but diagnostic imaging, convalescence, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I retrieved a small container for Belinda, placed inside it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d open the box just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those instances of shared confusion marked my desperate search for what to do from there. I called friends for advice and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and sent a request to join.

An Anarchic Model

Over 3,000-strong, the group operates on an organic method: someone in Manchester stumbles across an hurt pigeon, a pleading post is published, then a comment section “assessment” ensues. If the bird is judged in need of an X-ray, someone with a connection to a clinic can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabber” will volunteer to look after the bird.

Volunteers each have their own finely honed skills, whether it’s repairing broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their momentous, combined effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on kindness.

Belinda was quickly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a head injury, and assigned to a rehabber who would give comfort and a course of gentle physio. We never learned exactly what made her to plummet. I took up the role of avian courier once more, boarding the tram across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could obtain the attention she required.

A New Perspective

After discovering this hidden pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my city. I doubt 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 connected to a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed one drop from the sky into the grounds of my high school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the courage to pick it up and take it to security.

The aforementioned friend has since died – one of a number of companions to pass away in the years before my exit from Manchester. I realised that this had been a major reason of what had made returning home so difficult.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a history as “emotional support” animals, especially in the North. Miners started to keep the birds because they gave them solace and an reason to look up at the open air between long shifts of darkness below. During the hard times, workers on the dole also found a distraction in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “idleness”.

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

That? Not our Belinda. Although improbable to ever soar , she has taken to her newly earthbound life with aplomb in a volunteer’s extra room. Each contented call, often caused by her favourite snack, peas, feels like a lesson in perseverance and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me another side to the city I believed I understood.