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The plane pushed through successive sheets of freezing rain during the approach into its destination. A growing unease had accompanied me during the trip, growing stronger as I shuffled through the terminal. I was unhappy about having to be the town where I had grown up, after living 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 my hair cut. My thoughts was distant, focused on an vast expanse of water, when I heard something strike the pavement. I glanced down to see a bird on its wings, splayed out, and twitching.

The fall occurred just as kids were emerging from the local grade school and so within minutes a small chorus of children had assembled, surrounded by their mums and dads. This ring of puzzled faces peered down at the pigeon, unsure what to think or act. The kids were more decisive: “Dad, she needs a vet, can we call an emergency service?” I took off my jacket, crouched down and gently lifted the pigeon up into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the gentleman will take care of her!” said one mum with a audible relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, involuntarily, as I had a short time earlier.

I trudged home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird tucked safely inside the coat.

Little did I know that my spontaneous decision to medivac the bird (the name I bestowed upon my patient) would guide me to a community of city dwellers sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only ambulances for street birds but X-rays, convalescence, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I found a small container for Belinda, lined it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to make brief contact.

Those periods of common confusion punctuated my frantic search for what to do next. I called friends for advice and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I found a bird rehabilitation group, and sent a request to become a member.

A Grassroots Network

Over 3,000-strong, the group follows an decentralized model: someone in Manchester stumbles across an hurt pigeon, a heartfelt post is made, then a comment section “triage” ensues. If the bird is judged in need of an examination, someone with a vet link can arrange it; if it needs therapy, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to look after the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own carefully cultivated expertise, whether it’s mending broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their significant, collective effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on kindness.

Belinda was quickly assessed with neurological problems, likely a blow to the head, and matched with a rehabber who would give medication and a program of patient physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I took up the role of bird taxi once more, boarding the streetcar across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could receive the care she needed.

An Unexpected Lesson

After stumbling across this secret pigeon “support system”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my hometown. I am skeptical any of the places I had called home while away could have anything remotely similar. It also occurred to me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one plummet from the sky into the grounds of my old school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to safety.

The individual has since passed away – one of several friends to pass away in the years before my exit from Manchester. I came to see that this had been a big part of what had made the return so difficult.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a longstanding role as “companion” animals, especially in the North. Miners started to care for the birds because they gave them company and an opportunity to look up at the sky between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the hard times, 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, diseased or a general nuisance. Before finding the rehab group, I had contacted a animal doctor, who told me: “if you bring the bird here, leave it in the car park and we’ll euthanise it.”

The bird? Not her. Although improbable to ever take to the skies , she has adapted to her newly land-based life with aplomb in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each contented coo, often elicited by her favourite treat, vegetables, feels like a lesson in perseverance and fortitude – and I am forever grateful to her for showing me a new dimension to the city I was familiar with.