The plane pushed through successive sheets of icy precipitation on its descent into Manchester. A sense of dread had accompanied me during the flight, only deepening as I walked through the arrivals hall. I was unhappy about returning to the city where I had been raised, 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 thoughts was distant, lingering over an sea, when I heard something smack into the pavement. I looked down to see a pigeon on its wings, splayed out, and trembling.
The impact happened just as schoolchildren were emerging from the local grade school and so within a short time a little crowd of little ones had assembled, flanked by their mothers and fathers. This group of puzzled faces looked down at the creature, not knowing what to say or do. The kids were more certain: “Papa, she needs help, can we call an animal ambulance?” I took off my coat, knelt down and gently lifted the pigeon into it. “Don’t worry, love, the kind man will look after her!” remarked one mum with a sense of relief. I had become the ambulance for this pigeon that had just fallen suddenly, involuntarily, as I had a short time earlier.
I trudged home, arms stiffly extended, with the bird nestled inside the jacket.
Little did I know that my on-the-spot decision to aid my feathered charge (the name I bestowed upon my new friend) would guide me to a web of city dwellers devoting significant amounts of effort to provide not only transport for street birds but scans, recovery care, and even “pigeon physio”.
I found a shoebox for Belinda, placed inside it with an old shirt, and put her inside. Every short while, I’d peek inside just long enough for us to share a momentary glance.
Those moments of shared perplexity marked my frantic search for what to do from there. I called friends for advice and one proposed trying Facebook, where, to my amazement, I discovered a bird rehabilitation group, and put in a request to participate.
Over 3,000-strong, the group follows an anarchic model: someone in Manchester stumbles across an injured pigeon, a pleading post is made, then a comment section “evaluation” takes place. If the bird is judged in need of an examination, someone with a connection to a clinic can arrange it; if it needs physio, a “rehabber” will step forward to foster the bird.
Rehabbers each have their own finely honed skills, whether it’s mending broken wings or dressing wounds. Their tremendous, collective effort for the pigeons of the city runs entirely on volunteerism.
Belinda was quickly diagnosed with neurological problems, likely a blow to the head, and matched with a rehabber who would administer comfort and a course of patient physio. We never found out exactly what made her to plummet. I took up the role of avian courier once more, taking the tram across the city with Belinda in a container on my lap so she could get the treatment she deserved.
After finding this secret pigeon “NHS”, I began to feel much more positive about being back in my hometown. I doubt any of the places I had called home while away could boast anything comparable. It also struck me that this was not the first time I’d been part of a pigeon rescue: almost 20 years earlier I’d observed 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 courage to scoop it up and take it to security.
The aforementioned friend has since died – one of several friends to die in the years before my exit from Manchester. I understood that this had been a major reason of what had made the return so difficult.
Pigeons have a longstanding role as “emotional support” animals, especially in the north of England. Laborers started to keep the birds because they gave them comfort and an opportunity to gaze up at the open air between long shifts of darkness below. During the economic downturn, workers on the dole also found comfort in pigeons, but keeping them was considered a sign of “despair”.
Nowadays, pigeons are often written off as stupid, dirty or a annoyance. Before finding the rehab group, I had called a vet, who told me: “if you bring it here, leave it in the parking lot and we’ll put it down.”
It? Not our Belinda. Although not expected to ever fly again , she has adapted to her newly land-based life with grace in a volunteer’s home. Each satisfied coo, often elicited by her favourite food, frozen peas, feels like a example in adaptability and strength – and I am eternally thankful to her for unveiling for me a different facet to the city I was familiar with.
A seasoned casino strategist with over a decade of experience in gaming analysis and player psychology, Elena shares insights to help players succeed.
