Every morning and evening, Finn and I walk the river's edge. It's the most beautiful place full of open spaces and dense forest, and of course that beautiful Flathead River. The sky is always exquisite regardless of the time of day or weather, but I find myself luckiest if I happen to catch a moment where sunlight manages to peak through the clouds and illuminate a section of the dense trees that blanket the Columbia mountain range. 

The air shifts with our path - crisp and awake along the river's edge, then turning balmy and close when we duck into the woods. These walks have become our ritual, our way of touching base with the day and ourselves. That's the funny thing about rituals - they have a way of opening your eyes to things you might have otherwise missed.

Like the cats. Anyone who frequents this path knows about them - the colony that made its home on the property near the park entrance. At one point, there were nearly 40 of them - until the former homeowner moved away, taking 20 with her. The remaining 17 were fortunate to have thoughtful shelter in the side yard, but they'd grown accustomed to regular feedings, fresh water, and heated shelter in the winter months. Community Facebook posts buzzed with concern about their care. After a few days of knowing they were without food and water, I had to help.

Not long into my cat-caring mission, I met a guy outside of my daily shed visits—a fellow newcomer to Montana who had a decidedly different take on my project. He reminded me that Montanans have a rugged, self-sufficient philosophy and pointed out, with a grin, that these cats were “hardcore Montanan cats” who didn’t need my help. 

He also shared that Montanans say if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. In his eyes, feeding the cats went against the natural balance of the wild, a stance Montanans take seriously when it comes to survival and natural predation. I went home that night conflicted, understanding his viewpoint but also wrestling with my own. 

These cats had already been made semi-dependent by their former caregivers, and if they were truly feral, perhaps I’d feel differently. After some reflection (and a good night’s sleep), I decided I could continue feeding them—but with a shift in mindset. I would care for them as the fierce, resilient creatures they are, rather than through the lens of pity. And that’s when things started to change. Resources began to flow in: neighbors with extra supplies, helping hands, and that’s when I met Jim, who’d soon become my right-hand partner in caring for this unexpected colony.

As tough as it can be to know that soon the brutal winter weather will be the most powerful determinant of their survival, there's a sweet spot in all of this. It’s a place of "and" where we meet in the middle. 

Where I can honor these hardcore Montana cats - who would absolutely be hunting and thriving in true feral conditions - while still showing up with fresh water and food. They don't need saving, these remarkable beings. But they've grown accustomed to having their basic needs met on their journey, and I've grown accustomed to being their temporary room service. 

They're allowing me to practice holding the "and" - this delicate balance of stepping in without overstepping, of helping without hampering. Until warm barns and safe spaces call their names, we'll keep dancing this dance between wild and warm, holding both truths at once.