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T battled through successive sheets of icy precipitation on its descent into its destination. A growing unease settled over me during the trip, intensifying as I walked through the terminal. I felt bitter over returning to the town where I had grown up, after making a home on the other side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a short while, I headed out to get a haircut. My attention was miles away, focused on an ocean, when I was startled by something smack into the ground. I looked down to see a pigeon on its back, splayed out, and trembling.

The fall took place just as kids were filing out from the local primary school and so within a short time a group of children had gathered, accompanied by their parents. This group of puzzled faces stared down at the creature, uncertain what to do or say. The kids were more certain: “Daddy, she needs help, can we call an animal ambulance?” I took off my coat, crouched down and scooped the pigeon inside it. “Don’t worry, dear, the kind man will help her!” remarked one mother with a sigh of relief. I had turned into the emergency transport for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, involuntarily, as I had a couple of days prior.

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

I had no idea that my on-the-spot decision to rescue Belinda (the name I gave my patient) would guide me to a community of city dwellers sacrificing significant amounts of time to provide not only transport for feral pigeons but X-rays, recovery care, and even “pigeon physio”.

I retrieved a shoebox for Belinda, prepared 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 awkwardly lock eyes.

Those moments of common bewilderment punctuated my desperate search for what to do from there. I called friends for guidance and one proposed trying social media, where, to my amazement, I found a bird rehabilitation group, and sent a request to become a member.

A Grassroots Network

With a large membership, the group operates on an decentralized system: someone in Manchester discovers an hurt pigeon, a pleading post is made, then a comment section “triage” follows. If the bird is deemed in need of an X-ray, someone with a veterinary contact can get it one; if it needs physio, a “rehabber” will offer to care for the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own highly developed specialities, whether it’s repairing broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their significant, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city is powered solely by kindness.

Belinda was quickly assessed with brain trauma, likely a head injury, and placed with a rehabber who would give medication and a course of patient physio. We never learned exactly what caused her to plummet. I resumed the role of pigeon ambulance once more, boarding the light rail across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could obtain the care she needed.

An Unexpected Lesson

After stumbling across this secret pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my home town. I doubt any of the places I had resided in while away could boast anything even close. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been connected to a pigeon aid mission: almost 20 years earlier I’d witnessed one fall from the sky into the playground of my high school. Again, children gathered around 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 individual has since passed away – one of a number of companions to lose their lives in the years before my departure from Manchester. I realised that this had been a major reason of what had made returning home so hard.

Feathered Support

Pigeons have a longstanding role as “emotional support” animals, especially in the certain regions. Workers started to raise the birds because they gave them solace and an opportunity to gaze up at the open air between long shifts of subterranean gloom. During the Depression, workers on the assistance also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “despair”.

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

The bird? Not our Belinda. Although improbable to ever fly again , she has adapted to her newly earthbound life with success in a volunteer’s home. Each happy sound, often prompted by her favourite treat, frozen peas, feels like a demonstration in adaptability and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for showing me a new dimension to the city I was familiar with.