12/17/2025
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As we move into the holiday season, the world around us shifts.
Lights appear in windows. Presents are wrapped and tucked away. Conversations turn to gatherings, meals, laughter, and the people we love most. It is a season full of warmth and joy, of traditions and togetherness.
And while much of the community is counting down to celebration, I am sitting at my desk as the Operations Manager of the City of Great Falls Animal Shelter, looking back over end-of-year reports.
Pages filled with numbers.
At first glance, they look simple. Organized. Clean.
But I know better.
Because here, numbers are never just numbers.
So far in 2025, 597 animals have walked through our doors.
That number holds fear and hope all at once. It represents animals who arrived frightened, confused, sick, injured, exhausted, or simply unlucky. Some came from loving homes that lost them. Some came from places where love had never been gentle. All of them arrived needing help.
And every single one was met by a human who showed up for them.
For 152 of those animals, the story curved back toward joy.
These are the reunions.
The moments that stop time.
A dog recognizing a voice before seeing a face. A cat melting back into arms they know. Tears that come fast and unguarded. Relief that feels like finally breathing again.
These moments are why identification matters. Why ID tags matter. Why microchips matter. Because sometimes the difference between panic and peace is something smaller than a grain of rice.
For those who were not reunited with the families they came in with, many still found their way home.
357 animals were adopted into new forever homes.
They left with people who chose them. Who promised safety and patience and love. We imagine them later, living quiet lives on couches we’ll never sit on, wrapped into families we’ll never meet, and that is enough.
Somewhere between arrival and goodbye, there is time.
In 2025, the average length of stay for an animal in our care was 33 days.
For some, it was much shorter. A quick reunion. A fast adoption. A happy ending that came swiftly.
For others, it was longer. Weeks spent learning routines. Waiting. Healing. Learning that people could be kind again.
Those 33 days are filled with quiet moments that rarely get noticed. Gentle head scratches. A treat offered without expectation. Learning personalities, preferences, and which toys bring comfort. Trust built one small, patient moment at a time.
For however long an animal was with us, they were cared for. And we did everything we could to make those days safe.
Then the story grows quieter.
16 animals died in our care.
Some were old and simply tired. Some were impossibly small, born too early for this world. Some carried injuries or trauma too severe for medicine to heal. Every one of them was held. Every one of them was spoken to softly. Every one of them was loved for exactly as long as they needed us.
And then there is 34.
The number that never sits lightly.
The number that stays with us long after the reports are closed.
34 animals were euthanized.
This is the hardest part of our work. The part no one enters this field wanting to do. These decisions are never rushed, never casual, and never made without deep consideration and heartbreak. They come after careful evaluation, consultation, and the question we ask ourselves again and again: Is there a safe and humane path forward for this animal?
Sometimes the answer is no.
These were animals who were too sick for treatment to be kind. Too injured for recovery to be fair. Too fearful or traumatized to live safely in a human world without constant distress. In those moments, our responsibility shifts from saving a life at all costs to preventing further suffering.
This is also the number that draws the most judgment. The one people question from a distance. The one that is easiest to misunderstand. But what is rarely seen are the hours spent trying, the options exhausted, the tears shed, and the people who stay long after their shift ends to make sure an animal is not alone.
Along our office shelves are paw prints. Quiet, physical reminders of the lives we could not save, but refused to abandon. Each one represents a decision made with compassion, dignity, and respect. Each one mattered. Each one still does.
Every number in this report represents an animal that my staff cared for.
Fed.
Cleaned.
Medicated.
Comforted.
Loved.
What these numbers do not show is the people behind them.
My staff shows up 365 days a year.
On Easter.
On the Fourth of July.
On Thanksgiving.
On Christmas.
While the rest of the world celebrates, my team is here. Making sure animals are fed. Kennels are clean. Medications are given. Making sure no one is forgotten just because it’s a holiday.
They show up knowing the work is heavy.
They show up knowing that much of this work exists because animals were failed long before they ever reached our doors.
They show up knowing that the frustration, grief, and anger people feel often land on the shelter, even when we are working to pick up pieces left broken by others.
They stand in that space anyway, carrying blame that is not theirs while continuing to show up for the animals.
These numbers are not the whole story.
They are the quiet markers of lives that passed through our care.
The rest of the story lives in quiet moments, tired hands, and hearts that kept choosing to care.
That part doesn’t show up in a report, but it is what holds everything together.
So as we look forward to 2026, I hope it is a year shaped by reflection and compassion. A year with more reunions, more safe and lasting homes, and fewer animals needing rescue in the first place. A year where prevention matters as much as response, and where care begins long before an animal ever reaches our doors.
And may it be a year defined by kindness. Kindness for the animals who still need us. Kindness for the people who show up for them every single day. And kindness for the quiet work that happens out of sight, but holds everything together.
Laramie Smovir
Operations Manager
City of Great Falls Animal Shelter.
