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The plane pushed through wall after wall of freezing rain on its descent into Manchester. A sense of dread had accompanied me during the flight, growing stronger as I made my way through the airport. I was unhappy about having to be the city where I had grown up, after living on the other side of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.

After a couple of days, I ventured out to get a haircut. My mind was far away, lingering over an sea, when I became aware of something smack into the ground. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its back, spatchcocked, and convulsing.

The impact occurred just as children were streaming out from the local primary school and so within moments a small chorus of little ones had gathered, accompanied by their mothers and fathers. This circle of bemused faces stared down at the creature, uncertain what to do or say. The kids were more certain: “Daddy, she needs a vet, can we call an emergency service?” I slipped off my anorak, knelt down and gently lifted the pigeon inside it. “Don’t worry, dear, the nice man will help her!” said one mother with a sigh of relief. I had been transformed into the rescue vehicle for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, against its will, as I had a short time earlier.

I made my way home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird curled up inside the jacket.

Little did I know that my impromptu decision to medivac Belinda (the name I bestowed upon my new friend) would guide me to a community of Mancunians devoting significant amounts of time to provide not only ambulances for feral pigeons but scans, convalescence, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I found a shoebox for Belinda, placed inside it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d lift the lid just long enough for us to make brief contact.

Those instances of mutual bewilderment interrupted my frantic search for what to do next. I called friends for advice and one suggested trying social media, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a local pigeon rescue group, and sent a request to join.

A Community Effort

With a large membership, the group follows an anarchic method: someone in Manchester discovers an hurt pigeon, a pleading post is made, then a comment section “evaluation” takes place. If the bird is deemed in need of an X-ray, someone with a connection to a clinic can arrange it; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabber” will volunteer to look after the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own finely honed specialities, whether it’s setting broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their significant, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city is powered solely by goodwill.

Belinda was rapidly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and assigned to a rehabber who would provide comfort and a regimen of gentle physio. We never discovered exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I resumed the role of bird taxi once more, boarding the light rail across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could receive the attention she deserved.

Rediscovering Home

After finding this hidden pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my city. I am skeptical any of the places I had resided in while away could boast anything remotely similar. It also occurred to me that this was not the first time I’d been connected to a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one drop from the sky into the grounds of my secondary school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to safety.

The individual has since passed away – one of a number of companions to die in the years before my leaving from Manchester. I came to see that this had been a major reason of what had made coming back so hard.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a longstanding role as “therapy” animals, especially in the North. Workers started to keep the birds because they gave them comfort and an opportunity to gaze up at the open air between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the Depression, workers on the unemployment also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was viewed as a sign of “social malaise”.

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

The bird? Not this bird. Although unlikely to ever take to the skies , she has adapted to her newly grounded life with aplomb in a volunteer’s spare bedroom. Each happy coo, often prompted by her favourite food, peas, feels like a example in adaptability and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me another side to the city I thought I knew.