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The plane forced its way through wall after wall of icy precipitation during the approach into its destination. A sense of dread had accompanied me during the trip, only deepening as I walked through the airport. I was unhappy about coming back to the place where I had grown up, after making a home on the opposite end of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.

After a short while, I went out to get a trim. My thoughts was far away, focused on an ocean, when I heard something hit the ground. I glanced down to see a bird on its wings, sprawled, and twitching.

The fall took place just as children were filing out from the local grade school and so within minutes a group of youngsters had gathered, flanked by their mums and dads. This group of puzzled faces peered down at the pigeon, uncertain what to say or do. The kids were more definitive: “Papa, she needs hospital, can we call an emergency service?” I took off my jacket, crouched down and gently lifted the pigeon into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the kind man will look after her!” said one parent with a sense of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, involuntarily, as I had a few days before.

I walked slowly home, arms held out, with the bird tucked safely inside the coat.

Unbeknownst to me that my spontaneous decision to rescue the bird (the name I chose for my patient) would guide me to a community of local residents sacrificing significant amounts of effort to provide not only rescue services for feral pigeons but diagnostic imaging, recovery care, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I retrieved a small container for Belinda, prepared it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those periods of mutual perplexity punctuated my hectic search for what to do from there. I contacted friends for suggestions and one recommended trying online groups, where, to my surprise, I found a bird rehabilitation group, and put in a request to participate.

A Community Effort

With a large membership, the group has an organic model: someone in Manchester discovers an hurt pigeon, a heartfelt post is published, then a comment section “triage” takes place. If the bird is deemed in need of an scan, someone with a vet link can get it one; if it needs physio, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to foster the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own carefully cultivated specialities, whether it’s mending broken wings or dressing wounds. Their momentous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on goodwill.

Belinda was quickly diagnosed with a neurological issue, likely a blow to the head, and placed with a rehabber who would give pain relief and a course of careful physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to plummet. I assumed the role of pigeon ambulance once more, boarding the tram across the city with Belinda in a box on my lap so she could get the treatment she needed.

Rediscovering Home

After finding this secret pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my hometown. I am skeptical any of the places I had lived in while away could boast anything even close. 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 observed one drop from the sky into the playground of my secondary school. Again, children surrounded the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the nerve to scoop it up and take it to a safe place.

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 significant factor of what had made the return so painful.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a history as “emotional support” animals, especially in the certain regions. Miners started to raise the birds because they gave them comfort and an excuse to gaze up at the open air between long shifts of underground work. During the Depression, workers on the assistance also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was viewed as a sign of “despair”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often dismissed as stupid, unclean or a pest. Before finding the rehab group, I had spoken to a vet, who told me: “if you bring that here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll put it down.”

The bird? Not this bird. Although improbable to ever soar , she has embraced her newly earthbound life with success in a volunteer’s extra room. Each satisfied coo, often caused by her favourite food, peas, feels like a example in perseverance and fortitude – and I am eternally thankful to her for unveiling for me another side to the city I believed I understood.