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The plane pushed through wall after wall of sleet on its descent into its destination. A growing unease filled me during the trip, only deepening as I walked through the terminal. I resented having to be the city where I had spent my youth, after residing on the far side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a few days, I headed out to get a trim. My attention was miles away, focused on an ocean, when I was startled by something hit the ground. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its wings, spatchcocked, and twitching.

The crash happened just as schoolchildren were streaming out from the local elementary school and so within moments a little crowd of children had formed, accompanied by their mums and dads. This group of puzzled faces stared down at the pigeon, unsure what to do or say. The kids were more certain: “Papa, she needs a vet, can we call an emergency service?” I slipped off my jacket, bent down and scooped the pigeon into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the nice man will take care of her!” remarked one mum with a sense of relief. I had turned into the rescue vehicle for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, unintentionally, as I had a short time earlier.

I made my way home, arms held out, with the bird tucked safely inside the jacket.

Unbeknownst to me that my impromptu decision to aid Belinda (the name I bestowed upon 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 located a small container for Belinda, lined it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to make brief contact.

Those instances of common confusion marked my hectic search for what to do from there. I contacted friends for suggestions and one proposed trying social media, where, to my astonishment, I found a bird rehabilitation group, and sent a request to become a member.

An Anarchic Model

Over 3,000-strong, the group has an decentralized system: someone in Manchester discovers an ailing pigeon, a urgent post is published, then a comment section “triage” takes place. If the bird is judged in need of an examination, someone with a connection to a clinic can get it one; if it needs therapy, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to care for the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own carefully cultivated specialities, whether it’s repairing broken wings or dressing wounds. Their tremendous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on goodwill.

Belinda was rapidly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and matched with a rehabber who would give pain relief and a regimen of careful physio. We never found out exactly what made her to fall from the sky. I assumed the role of pigeon ambulance once more, riding the streetcar across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could obtain the care she deserved.

An Unexpected Lesson

After finding this secret pigeon “NHS”, 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 remotely similar. It also dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one plummet from the sky into the grounds of my secondary school. Again, children surrounded the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to security.

The individual has since passed away – one of a number of companions to die 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 hard.

Pigeons as Companions

Pigeons have a history as “therapy” animals, especially in the certain regions. Miners started to raise the birds because they gave them solace and an reason to stare at the sky between long shifts of darkness below. During the hard times, workers on the dole also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “social malaise”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often dismissed as simple, diseased or a annoyance. 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 end its life.”

The bird? Not this bird. Although improbable to ever take to the skies , she has taken to her newly grounded life with aplomb in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each happy call, often caused by her favourite snack, frozen peas, feels like a example in perseverance and fortitude – and I am always appreciative to her for revealing to me a new dimension to the city I believed I understood.