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The plane forced its way through wall after wall of freezing rain on its descent into the city. A sinking feeling filled me during the trip, only deepening as I walked through the airport. I felt bitter over 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 age.

After a couple of days, I headed out to get a trim. My attention was miles away, lingering over an ocean, when I heard something strike the ground. I gazed down to see a rock dove on its wings, sprawled, and trembling.

The impact occurred just as kids were emerging from the local primary school and so within minutes a little crowd of children had formed, surrounded by their mums and dads. This circle of confused faces peered down at the pigeon, uncertain what to think or act. The kids were more definitive: “Papa, she needs help, can we call an ambulance?” I removed my anorak, bent down and scooped the pigeon inside it. “Don’t worry, love, the kind man will help her!” exclaimed one mum with a sigh of relief. I had turned into the ambulance for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, involuntarily, as I had a couple of days prior.

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

I had no idea that my impromptu decision to aid Belinda (the name I gave my avian patient) would guide me to a web of local residents giving up significant amounts of time to provide not only rescue services for feral pigeons but diagnostic imaging, recovery care, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I located 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 make brief contact.

Those instances of shared perplexity punctuated my frantic search for what to do after that. I called friends for suggestions and one proposed trying social media, where, to my surprise, I found a bird rehabilitation group, and submitted a request to participate.

An Anarchic Model

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 “assessment” ensues. If the bird is considered in need of an scan, someone with a vet link can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabber” will offer to look after the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own highly developed expertise, whether it’s mending broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their momentous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on volunteerism.

Belinda was rapidly assessed with brain trauma, likely a blow to the head, and placed with a rehabber who would give comfort and a program of patient physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I resumed the role of bird taxi once more, boarding the streetcar across the city with Belinda in a shoebox on my lap so she could obtain the treatment she required.

Rediscovering Home

After discovering this underground pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much better about being back in my hometown. I doubt 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 witnessed one fall from the sky into the grounds of my secondary school. Again, children surrounded the bird, but only one – my friend at the time – had the gall to rescue it and take it to safety.

The friend in question has since been lost – one of several friends to pass away in the years before my departure from Manchester. I realised that this had been a big part of what had made coming back so difficult.

Pigeons as Companions

Pigeons have a history as “companion” animals, especially in the certain regions. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them solace and an reason to gaze up at the open air between long shifts of underground work. During the economic downturn, workers on the unemployment also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was viewed as a sign of “despair”.

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

It? Not our Belinda. Although improbable to ever take to the skies , she has taken to her newly grounded life with success in a volunteer’s home. Each contented sound, often prompted by her favourite snack, frozen peas, feels like a lesson in perseverance and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for revealing to me a different facet to the city I thought I knew.