Our aircraft forced its way through successive sheets of icy precipitation on its descent into its destination. A sinking feeling had accompanied me during the flight, growing stronger as I shuffled through the arrivals hall. I resented having to be the city where I had grown up, after residing on the opposite end of the world for what had felt like a an eternity.
After a couple of days, I ventured out to get a my hair cut. My mind was far away, lingering over an sea, when I was startled by something smack into the ground. I looked down to see a rock dove on its wings, sprawled, and twitching.
The fall occurred just as kids were filing out from the local elementary school and so within a short time a group of youngsters had gathered, surrounded by their parents. This group of puzzled faces stared down at the pigeon, uncertain what to say or do. The kids were more decisive: “Daddy, she needs hospital, can we call an emergency service?” I removed my jacket, knelt down and picked up the pigeon into it. “It’s okay, sweet, the kind man will look after her!” said one mum with a audible relief. I had become the rescue vehicle for this pigeon that had just landed abruptly, unintentionally, as I had a couple of days prior.
I made my way home, arms stiffly extended, with the bird nestled inside the jacket.
Little did I know that my on-the-spot decision to rescue my feathered charge (the name I bestowed upon my patient) would lead me to a network of local residents giving up significant amounts of their time to provide not only transport for feral pigeons but X-rays, respite care, and even “pigeon physio”.
I retrieved a cardboard box for Belinda, prepared it with an old T-shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d open the box just long enough for us to awkwardly lock eyes.
Those instances of common confusion marked my desperate search for what to do next. I contacted friends for suggestions and one suggested trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I stumbled upon a Manchester Pigeon Rehab group, and submitted a request to join.
Boasting thousands of members, the group has an decentralized model: someone in Manchester discovers an ailing pigeon, a pleading post is published, then a comment section “triage” ensues. If the bird is considered in need of an examination, someone with a veterinary contact can arrange it; if it needs rehabilitation, a “rehabilitator” will offer to look after the bird.
Rehabbers each have their own finely honed specialities, whether it’s setting broken wings or cleaning wounds. Their momentous, cooperative effort for the pigeons of the city is powered solely by goodwill.
Belinda was quickly assessed with a neurological issue, likely a head injury, and placed with a rehabber who would give medication and a course of gentle physio. We never discovered exactly what caused her to drop from above. 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 get the treatment she required.
After discovering this hidden pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much more positive 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 dawned on me that this was not the first time I’d been part of a pigeon recovery: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed one plummet from the sky into the schoolyard of my high school. Again, children gathered around the bird, but only one – my closest friend at the time – had the gall to pick it up and take it to security.
The individual has since died – one of a number of companions to pass away in the years before my departure from Manchester. I understood that this had been a big part of what had made returning home so painful.
Pigeons have a history as “emotional support” animals, especially in the North. Laborers started to raise the birds because they gave them company and an opportunity to gaze up at the sky between long shifts of darkness below. During the Depression, workers on the dole also found solace in pigeons, but keeping them was viewed as a sign of “social malaise”.
Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as simple, dirty or a annoyance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a animal doctor, who told me: “if you bring the bird here, leave it in the lot and we’ll put it down.”
The bird? Not this bird. Although improbable to ever fly again , she has embraced her newly grounded life with success in a volunteer’s extra room. Each contented sound, often elicited by her favourite treat, peas, feels like a lesson in resilience and strength – and I am always appreciative to her for revealing to me a new dimension to the city I thought I knew.
Elara is a seasoned writer and digital storyteller with a passion for exploring diverse literary genres and empowering others through words.
