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Our aircraft pushed through successive sheets of freezing rain as it landed into its destination. A growing unease had accompanied me during the flight, growing stronger as I shuffled through the airport. I was unhappy about coming back to the place where I had been raised, after residing on the opposite end of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.

After a couple of days, I ventured out to get a trim. My attention was distant, back across an sea, when I heard something hit the pavement. I glanced down to see a bird on its back, spatchcocked, and convulsing.

The crash happened just as schoolchildren were emerging from the local grade school and so within minutes a small chorus of youngsters had assembled, surrounded by their mothers and fathers. This ring of bemused faces peered down at the bird, not knowing what to do or say. The kids were more decisive: “Daddy, she needs hospital, can we call an ambulance?” I took off my anorak, crouched down and gently lifted the pigeon up into it. “Don’t worry, dear, the nice man will look after her!” remarked one parent with a sense of relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just come down hard, unintentionally, as I had a short time earlier.

I trudged home, arms stiffly extended, with the bird curled up inside the coat.

Little did I know that my spontaneous decision to medivac Belinda (the name I chose for my new friend) would direct me to a web of local residents giving up significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for street birds but diagnostic imaging, respite care, and even “pigeon physio”.

I retrieved a shoebox for Belinda, prepared it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d open the box just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.

Those instances of mutual confusion interrupted my frantic search for what to do after that. I contacted friends for advice and one suggested trying social media, where, to my astonishment, I discovered a local pigeon rescue group, and submitted a request to join.

A Community Effort

Boasting thousands of members, the group operates on an decentralized system: someone in Manchester finds an injured pigeon, a heartfelt post is created, then a comment section “assessment” takes place. If the bird is considered in need of an examination, someone with a veterinary contact can get it one; if it needs physio, a “rehabber” will volunteer to look after the bird.

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

Belinda was promptly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a concussion, and placed with a rehabber who would administer medication and a program of patient physio. We never learned exactly what caused her to drop from above. I took up the role of avian courier once more, taking the tram across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could get the care she needed.

A New Perspective

After stumbling across this underground pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my city. I doubt any of the places I had resided in while away could have anything comparable. It also occurred to me that this was not the first time I’d been part of a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d witnessed one fall from the sky into the playground of my secondary school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the gall to scoop it up and take it to a safe place.

The aforementioned friend has since died – one of a number of companions to lose their lives in the years before my leaving from Manchester. I understood that this had been a major reason of what had made coming back so hard.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a history as “therapy” animals, especially in the certain regions. Laborers started to raise the birds because they gave them company and an opportunity to gaze up at the heavens 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 “despair”.

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

It? Not our Belinda. Although not expected to ever soar , she has embraced her newly land-based life with grace in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each happy call, often elicited by her favourite snack, vegetables, feels like a example in resilience and fortitude – and I am always appreciative to her for unveiling for me a new dimension to the city I thought I knew.