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T forced its way through layer after layer of freezing rain as it landed into Manchester. A sense of dread settled over me during the flight, growing stronger as I made my way through the arrivals hall. 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 lifetime.

After a couple of days, I went out to get a trim. My thoughts was miles away, focused on an vast expanse of water, when I heard something strike the ground. I looked down to see a bird on its back, spatchcocked, and convulsing.

The impact happened just as schoolchildren were emerging from the local primary school and so within minutes a group of youngsters had assembled, flanked by their mums and dads. This ring of bemused faces looked down at the pigeon, uncertain what to think or act. The kids were more definitive: “Daddy, she needs help, can we call an ambulance?” I removed my jacket, bent down and scooped the pigeon into it. “It’s okay, dear, the nice man will look after her!” remarked one mum with a sense of relief. I had been transformed into the emergency transport for this pigeon that had just come down hard, unintentionally, as I had a short time earlier.

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

I had no idea that my spontaneous decision to rescue the bird (the name I chose for my new friend) would direct me to a web of local residents sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only ambulances for feral pigeons but scans, respite care, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I located a small container for Belinda, placed inside it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those periods of common bewilderment punctuated my frantic search for what to do next. I contacted friends for suggestions and one proposed trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a local pigeon rescue group, and put in a request to join.

A Grassroots Network

Over 3,000-strong, the group follows an decentralized system: someone in Manchester finds an ailing pigeon, a urgent post is made, then a comment section “assessment” ensues. If the bird is considered in need of an X-ray, someone with a vet link can organize it; if it needs physio, a “carer” will offer to care for the bird.

Volunteers each have their own finely honed skills, whether it’s setting broken wings or treating wounds. Their significant, combined effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on volunteerism.

Belinda was promptly diagnosed with brain trauma, likely a head injury, and matched with a rehabber who would provide pain relief and a course of careful physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to plummet. I took up the role of pigeon ambulance once more, taking the light rail across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could receive the treatment she needed.

Rediscovering Home

After discovering this secret pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much better about being back in my hometown. I doubt any of the places I had called home while away could have anything even close. It also dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been connected to a pigeon aid mission: 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 gall to rescue it and take it to security.

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

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a history as “therapy” animals, especially in the certain regions. Workers started to raise the birds because they gave them company and an reason to gaze up at the heavens between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the economic downturn, workers on the assistance also found a distraction in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “idleness”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often disparaged as simple, dirty or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had spoken to a veterinarian, who told me: “if you bring it here, leave it in the car park and we’ll end its life.”

That? Not our Belinda. Although not expected to ever fly again , she has embraced her newly land-based life with aplomb in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each happy sound, often caused by her favourite treat, frozen peas, feels like a demonstration in adaptability and resilience – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me another side to the city I was familiar with.