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T pushed through successive sheets of sleet as it landed into its destination. A sense of dread had accompanied me during the journey, growing stronger as I shuffled through the terminal. I was unhappy about having to be the city where I had spent my youth, after residing on the opposite end of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a few days, I headed out to get a my hair cut. My thoughts was distant, focused on an sea, when I was startled by something smack into the sidewalk. I gazed down to see a pigeon on its side, spatchcocked, and convulsing.

The crash took place just as children were streaming out from the local primary school and so within moments a small chorus of youngsters had assembled, accompanied by their parents. This circle of bemused faces stared down at the pigeon, uncertain what to do or say. The kids were more definitive: “Papa, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I slipped off my coat, knelt down and gently lifted the pigeon into it. “It’s okay, dear, the gentleman will take care of her!” said one mum with a sigh of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, unintentionally, as I had a few days before.

I walked slowly home, arms stiffly extended, with the bird tucked safely inside the garment.

Unbeknownst to me that my on-the-spot decision to aid Belinda (the name I bestowed upon my patient) would guide me to a network of city dwellers giving up significant amounts of their time to provide not only ambulances for city pigeons but X-rays, respite care, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I retrieved a small container for Belinda, placed inside it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.

Those periods of common perplexity marked my desperate search for what to do after that. I phoned friends for advice and one proposed trying Facebook, where, to my surprise, I discovered a bird rehabilitation group, and put in a request to join.

A Community Effort

Boasting thousands of members, the group follows an organic method: someone in Manchester discovers an ailing pigeon, a heartfelt post is made, then a comment section “assessment” follows. If the bird is considered in need of an X-ray, someone with a veterinary contact can organize it; if it needs physio, a “rehabilitator” will step forward to care for the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own highly developed skills, whether it’s repairing broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their tremendous, combined effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on goodwill.

Belinda was promptly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a concussion, and assigned to a rehabber who would administer pain relief and a program of careful physio. We never learned exactly what made her to drop from above. I assumed the role of bird taxi once more, taking the tram across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could obtain the care she deserved.

An Unexpected Lesson

After discovering this secret pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much better about being back in my home town. I question any of the places I had lived in while away could boast anything even close. It also occurred to me that this was not the first time I’d been part of a pigeon aid mission: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one plummet from the sky into the playground of my old school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the courage to pick it up and take it to a safe place.

The friend in question has since been lost – one of several friends to lose their lives in the years before my departure from Manchester. I realised that this had been a major reason of what had made the return so painful.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a tradition as “therapy” animals, especially in the north of England. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them solace and an opportunity to stare at the sky between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the Depression, workers on the unemployment also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “despair”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as stupid, diseased or a general nuisance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a veterinarian, who told me: “if you bring that here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll euthanise it.”

That? Not our Belinda. Although unlikely to ever fly again , she has embraced her newly earthbound life with grace in a volunteer’s extra room. Each contented sound, often caused by her favourite treat, peas, feels like a example in resilience and fortitude – and I am eternally thankful to her for revealing to me a new dimension to the city I was familiar with.