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Our aircraft battled through layer after layer of freezing rain as it landed into Manchester. A sinking feeling filled me during the flight, growing stronger as I made my way through the airport. I felt bitter over having to be the town where I had spent my youth, 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 trim. My mind was far away, lingering over an vast expanse of water, when I was startled by something smack into the ground. I looked down to see a rock dove on its back, spatchcocked, and trembling.

The crash occurred just as children were filing out from the local elementary school and so within moments a little crowd of little ones had gathered, flanked by their mums and dads. This ring of puzzled faces stared down at the creature, not knowing what to think or act. The kids were more definitive: “Papa, she needs a vet, can we call an animal ambulance?” I slipped off my coat, crouched down and scooped the pigeon inside it. “No problem, dear, the nice man will help her!” remarked one parent with a sense of relief. I had been transformed into the emergency transport for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, against its will, as I had a few days before.

I trudged home, arms ramrod straight, with the bird curled up inside the garment.

I had no idea that my impromptu decision to rescue Belinda (the name I chose for my patient) would direct me to a web of city dwellers giving up significant amounts of their time to provide not only transport for street birds but scans, respite care, and even “bird rehabilitation”.

I found a cardboard box for Belinda, placed inside it with an old T-shirt, 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 shared bewilderment punctuated my frantic search for what to do after that. I contacted friends for guidance and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a local pigeon rescue group, and sent a request to become a member.

An Anarchic Model

Boasting thousands of members, the group operates on an anarchic model: someone in Manchester finds an injured pigeon, a heartfelt post is created, then a comment section “assessment” ensues. If the bird is considered in need of an examination, someone with a veterinary contact can get it one; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabilitator” will volunteer to care for the bird.

Rehabbers each have their own carefully cultivated skills, whether it’s setting broken wings or dressing wounds. Their tremendous, collective effort for the pigeons of the city is powered solely by volunteerism.

Belinda was rapidly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a head injury, and matched with a rehabber who would give medication and a regimen of patient physio. We never discovered exactly what caused her to fall from the sky. I took up the role of bird taxi once more, riding the light rail across the city with Belinda in a box on my lap so she could receive the attention she required.

Rediscovering Home

After discovering this underground pigeon “health service”, I began to feel much differently about being back in my city. I question any of the places I had called home while away could boast anything even close. It also dawned on 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 playground of my secondary school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the nerve to pick it up and take it to safety.

The friend in question has since been lost – one of four friends to pass away in the years before my exit from Manchester. I realised that this had been a major reason of what had made the return so painful.

A History of Comfort

Pigeons have a tradition as “emotional support” animals, especially in the certain regions. Laborers started to care for the birds because they gave them company and an excuse to gaze up at the heavens between long shifts of underground work. During the Depression, workers on the unemployment also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “social malaise”.

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

That? Not our Belinda. Although not expected to ever soar , she has adapted to her newly land-based life with grace in a volunteer’s home. Each happy call, often prompted by her favourite treat, peas, feels like a lesson in resilience and fortitude – and I am forever grateful to her for showing me another side to the city I was familiar with.