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The plane forced its way through successive sheets of icy precipitation as it landed into its destination. A sinking feeling settled over me during the flight, only deepening as I made my way through the airport. I resented coming back to the place where I had spent my youth, after living on the other side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a couple of days, I went out to get a trim. My mind was distant, focused on an ocean, when I heard something smack into the sidewalk. I glanced down to see a pigeon on its wings, sprawled, and twitching.

The crash took place just as kids were filing out from the local primary school and so within moments a small chorus of children had formed, accompanied by their parents. This ring of confused 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 animal ambulance?” I removed my anorak, bent down and gently lifted the pigeon into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the kind man will take care of her!” exclaimed one parent with a sense of relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just come down hard, unintentionally, as I had a few days before.

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

Little did I know that my on-the-spot decision to medivac Belinda (the name I gave my new friend) would direct me to a network of city dwellers sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for feral pigeons but X-rays, convalescence, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I located a small container for Belinda, placed inside it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.

Those periods of shared confusion punctuated my hectic search for what to do from there. I called friends for guidance and one suggested trying social media, where, to my amazement, I discovered a bird rehabilitation group, and submitted a request to become a member.

A Community Effort

Over 3,000-strong, the group has an anarchic model: someone in Manchester finds an hurt pigeon, a urgent post is published, then a comment section “triage” follows. If the bird is deemed in need of an examination, someone with a connection to a clinic can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “carer” will step forward to foster the bird.

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

Belinda was rapidly assessed with neurological problems, likely a concussion, and placed with a rehabber who would provide medication and a course of patient physio. We never found out exactly what made her to plummet. I assumed the role of bird taxi once more, boarding the tram across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could obtain the care she deserved.

A New Perspective

After discovering this secret pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my city. I question any of the places I had called home while away could claim anything remotely similar. It also dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one fall from the sky into the grounds of my high school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the courage to scoop it up and take it to a safe place.

The friend in question has since been lost – one of four friends to pass away in the years before my exit from Manchester. I understood that this had been a major reason of what had made coming back so difficult.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a tradition as “companion” animals, especially in the certain regions. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them company and an reason to stare at the open air between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the Depression, workers on the dole also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “social malaise”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often dismissed as simple, dirty or a annoyance. Before finding the rehab group, I had contacted a vet, who told me: “if you bring that here, leave it in the lot and we’ll euthanise it.”

The bird? Not her. Although unlikely to ever take to the skies , she has embraced her newly earthbound life with success in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each contented coo, often prompted by her favourite food, frozen peas, feels like a lesson in resilience and fortitude – and I am eternally thankful to her for showing me another side to the city I thought I knew.