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The plane pushed through layer after layer of icy precipitation as it landed into the city. A growing unease filled me during the trip, growing stronger as I made my way through the airport. I felt bitter over having to be the place where I had been raised, after making a home on the far side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a couple of days, I went out to get a haircut. My attention was miles away, lingering over an ocean, when I was startled by something smack into the pavement. I gazed down to see a pigeon on its back, sprawled, and twitching.

The impact took place just as children were streaming out from the local primary school and so within a short time a little crowd of youngsters had gathered, flanked by their parents. This ring of puzzled faces stared down at the pigeon, not knowing what to think or act. The kids were more certain: “Papa, she needs a vet, can we call an animal ambulance?” I took off my jacket, crouched down and scooped the pigeon inside it. “It’s okay, love, the gentleman will look after her!” remarked one mother with a sense of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, unintentionally, as I had a couple of days prior.

I made my way home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird tucked safely inside the jacket.

I had no idea that my spontaneous decision to rescue the bird (the name I gave my new friend) would direct me to a community of Mancunians sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only rescue services for feral pigeons but X-rays, recovery care, and even “pigeon physio”.

I found a shoebox for Belinda, prepared it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every 20 minutes or so, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those moments of shared perplexity punctuated my desperate search for what to do next. I phoned friends for guidance and one proposed trying Facebook, where, to my astonishment, I found a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and put in a request to become a member.

A Grassroots Network

With a large membership, the group follows an anarchic model: someone in Manchester finds an ailing pigeon, a heartfelt post is published, then a comment section “triage” follows. If the bird is judged in need of an X-ray, someone with a vet link can arrange it; if it needs physio, a “rehabber” will volunteer to foster the bird.

Carers each have their own finely honed expertise, whether it’s repairing broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their momentous, combined effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on volunteerism.

Belinda was promptly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and placed with a rehabber who would give pain relief and a program of patient physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I resumed the role of avian courier once more, boarding the light rail across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could obtain the attention she required.

Rediscovering Home

After finding this hidden pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much better about being back in my hometown. I question any of the places I had called home while away could have anything comparable. It also occurred to me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon aid mission: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one plummet from the sky into the playground of my high school. Again, children circled the bird, but only one – my best friend at the time – had the gall to pick it up and take it to a safe place.

The aforementioned friend has since died – one of a number of companions to pass away in the years before my departure from Manchester. I realised that this had been a significant factor of what had made the return so painful.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a history as “companion” animals, especially in the certain regions. Miners started to care for the birds because they gave them solace and an excuse to look up at the heavens between long shifts of underground work. During the Depression, workers on the dole also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was seen as a sign of “despair”.

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

It? Not her. Although unlikely to ever soar , she has taken to her newly land-based life with aplomb in a volunteer’s home. Each satisfied sound, often elicited by her favourite treat, frozen peas, feels like a example in adaptability and fortitude – and I am eternally thankful to her for showing me a different facet to the city I was familiar with.