🔗 Share this article

The plane forced its way through successive sheets of freezing rain as it landed into Manchester. A sinking feeling filled me during the journey, only deepening as I shuffled through the terminal. I was unhappy about coming back to the town where I had been raised, after living on the far side of the world for what had felt like a an age.

After a couple of days, I headed out to get a haircut. My mind was distant, back across an ocean, when I was startled by something strike the pavement. I looked down to see a rock dove on its wings, splayed out, and trembling.

The crash occurred just as schoolchildren were streaming out from the local primary school and so within a short time a small chorus of youngsters had gathered, accompanied by their parents. This ring of bemused faces stared down at the pigeon, unsure what to do or say. The kids were more definitive: “Dad, she needs help, can we call an ambulance?” I slipped off my anorak, bent down and gently lifted the pigeon inside it. “It’s okay, dear, the gentleman will help her!” exclaimed one mother with a sense of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, against its will, as I had a few days before.

I walked slowly home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird tucked safely inside the coat.

Unbeknownst to me that my spontaneous decision to aid the bird (the name I bestowed upon my patient) would lead me to a network of local residents giving up significant amounts of effort to provide not only rescue services for feral pigeons but X-rays, respite care, and even “avian physiotherapy”.

I found a shoebox for Belinda, lined it with an old piece of cloth, and put her inside. Every half hour or so, I’d open the box just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.

Those instances of shared perplexity interrupted my desperate search for what to do next. I called friends for guidance and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my astonishment, I discovered a bird rehabilitation group, and submitted a request to become a member.

A Grassroots Network

With a large membership, the group follows an organic model: someone in Manchester finds an injured pigeon, a urgent post is published, then a comment section “evaluation” takes place. If the bird is judged in need of an X-ray, someone with a veterinary contact can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to look after the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own carefully cultivated expertise, whether it’s setting broken wings or treating wounds. Their momentous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city depends completely on kindness.

Belinda was rapidly diagnosed with brain trauma, likely a blow to the head, and matched with a rehabber who would provide pain relief and a regimen of gentle physio. We never found out exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I assumed the role of bird taxi once more, taking the tram across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could receive the attention she required.

A New Perspective

After finding this hidden pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much better about being back in my home town. I doubt any of the places I had lived in while away could boast anything even close. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been involved in a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d seen one fall from the sky into the grounds of my secondary school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the courage to rescue it and take it to security.

The aforementioned friend has since passed away – one of a number of companions to die in the years before my leaving from Manchester. I realised that this had been a big part of what had made coming back so painful.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a longstanding role as “therapy” animals, especially in the North. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them company and an reason to stare at the heavens between long shifts of underground work. During the Depression, workers on the unemployment also found a distraction in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “despair”.

Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as simple, unclean or a annoyance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a veterinarian, who told me: “if you bring the bird here, leave it in the lot and we’ll put it down.”

It? Not this bird. Although unlikely to ever soar , she has taken to her newly grounded life with grace in a volunteer’s extra room. Each satisfied call, often caused by her favourite food, peas, feels like a example in adaptability and strength – and I am forever grateful to her for unveiling for me a new dimension to the city I believed I understood.