What Is Vayu and What Does It Have To Do With Cat Footprints?

Part 1

We all know that daily movement is good for us, but for some of us, running and riding aren’t just exercise — they’re a way of life, an ingrained habit. They ground us, clear our minds, and connect us to the world around us. Being outside, moving through the air and the terrain, reminds us that there is always more to see, more to explore, and more to discover.

Overnight, snow had fallen — that light, fluffy kind that makes the world look fresh, soft, and clean. The first of us to hit the trail saw the undisturbed, pure white blanket, which seemed to both muffle and amplify every sound: the runner’s breath, the soft crunch of pedals under wheels, the rhythm of footsteps pressing into the snow. Each step left a crisp imprint, the only marks in the stillness.

And then, something caught the eye — a tiny set of delicate paw prints weaving across the fresh snow. Too small for a coyote, too round for a rabbit. Beside them, the shallow depression where yesterday’s food had been left was now empty.

Someone—or something—had been here.

Vayu, they thought, smiling softly at the name they’d quietly given this elusive, wily visitor. Like the wind, rarely seen but always felt, Vayu had left a quiet mark on their day. The trail stretched on, silent and white, the footprints disappearing toward the underbrush, leaving only a whisper of movement and the hint of a story just beginning.

Tomorrow, they’d follow the tracks again. And maybe, slowly, that story would unfold.

Part 2

The snow continued to fall in soft, fluffy layers, turning the trail into a pristine, quiet world. The runner’s breath froze as it met the cold air, shoes crunching steadily as they continued along the path despite the weather. Even in winter, even in the off-season, the rhythm of movement was a comfort — an affirmation. Proof that life goes on, and that we find a way, no matter the conditions.

And there it was again — fresh paw prints marking the snow. Tiny. Precise. Purposeful.

Nearby, a small portion of food that had been left was now gone. Someone had been here before them.

Curious, the runner scanned the snowy edges of the path. No human footprints in sight. Only the small tracks, leading toward the underbrush. Vayu, they thought. Like the wind — present, persistent, and unseen.

The trail carried hints of care and consistency, a quiet kindness woven into the cold, snowy days. The runner smiled beneath their scarf. Even in winter, life left its marks — tracks in the snow tracing movement, resilience, and trust.

Part 3

The trail had been walked countless times before, but today the world felt sharper, harsher. Snow whipped across the path in stinging gusts, and the wind rattled the bare branches. Fresh drifts slowed every step, crunching under boots with a brittle rhythm.

Through the swirl of white, the runner spotted him—the visitor, the stray—approaching the heated food bowl. His coat fluffed against the cold, ears swiveling at every snap of ice and hiss of wind. He sniffed the air, tail flicking like a metronome, then began to eat with careful, deliberate bites.

Inside, the runner's two cats, sat like in the warm comfort, curious and intrigued but uninterested in intervening. Outside Kitty looked up at them both and at the runner.  Outside Kitty continued eating and drinking, his focus on survival and surroundings. Outside Kitty didn't flinch, trusting at least this much in the humans who had consistently provided warmth and nourishment.  

When the bowl emptied, the runner’s husband opened the door to refill it. For a brief moment, Outside Kitty paused—still wary—but instead of fleeing, he retreated only a few steps down the stairs, crouching low to the snow-dusted ground and watching. Patient. Alert. Calm. He waited until the humans had stepped back inside, respecting the space that had been earned.

Even in the biting wind, even as the trail became a corridor of ice and shadow, Outside Kitty persisted. He navigated the snow, the dark underbrush, and the cold, moving with the quiet determination of one who had learned which humans—and which places—offered safety.

In those fleeting moments, the runner understood: trust takes time, patience is essential, and persistence matters. Even in a storm, even in the cold, life—and connection—continue.

Part 4 — Testing Boundaries 

Yesterday’s storm forced decisions. Today allowed choice.

The morning air was crisp, the snow sparkled under pale sunlight, and the trail was quiet except for the rhythmic crunch of boots on the snow.. In the cold, even in the quiet off-season, the runner arrived back home, following the familiar rhythm that had become part of winter life. The food was still there but some of had been consumed.  The runner moved to the window and Outside Kitty appeared as if from nowhere, stepping lightly onto the porch. Today, he stayed longer near the heated food bowl, pausing to sniff the food and glance toward the balcony where the runner was watching. A flicker of curiosity—but not fear—crossed his eyes. Sometimes he would eat while the runner watched.  Other times, a sudden sound would send him darting to the bottom of the steps. He was testing boundaries, learning exactly how much he could trust. Inside, the household cats continued their watchful vigil. 

The runner’s own two cats have been keeping tabs too.  Their whiskers twitch with interest, as they other cat observed quietly. Outside Kitty glanced at them both but kept eating, confident in the rhythm of his daily visits, feeling safe with the separation provided by the glass, starting to trust the  humans who had been quietly consistent. Even a flash of movement in the trees or on the street—walkers, walkers with dogs, children, maybe even a distant coyote—did not startle him for long. He knew the trail, the food, the humans and he knew the escape routes to get to the trail.. 

When the food was gone, the runner filled the bowl once more, careful to leave enough distance, a small, almost imperceptible sense of connection grew. Like the indoor, spoiled and coddled cats, Outside Kitty has the expectant look of a cat waiting for the bowl to be filled.  Trust, the runner thought, was like winter snow: it arrived slowly, silently, covering the path in delicate layers until even the wildest heart felt at home.

Part 5 — Expectation

The cold deepened overnight, the kind that creaks through walls and settles into bone. By morning, the bowls were empty. The porch was quiet.

The runner hesitated, worried the night had been too much — the temperature too low, the risks too many. Then the porch light clicked on.

Outside Kitty was there.

He looked up, calm and steady, as if the timing were obvious. As if this was how mornings worked now.

When the door opened, he stepped back — not fleeing, just making space — retreating a few stairs and watching closely as the bowls were filled. He didn’t rush forward. He waited. When the door closed again, he returned and ate immediately, certain and focused.

This wasn’t desperation.
This was expectation.

The routine had become mutual.

Part 6 - Chosen Proximity and Acceptance

The cold did not let up. The numbers dipped lower, the forecasts grim. The thermal house sat nearby, unused but ready, a promise waiting for the right moment.

Outside Kitty survived anyway.

He came when the bowls were empty. He avoided the dangers that prowled beyond the trees. He used the shelter he trusted and ignored the rest. He remained what he had always been: watchful, capable, independent.

But now, when the porch light turned on, he was already there.

Not inside.
Not owned.
Not tamed.

Just close enough.

The indoor cats watched from behind the glass, puzzled by this arrangement. The runner understood it better now. Trust didn’t mean surrender. Support didn’t require possession.

Outside Kitty would never be an indoor cat — and that was never the point.

Like an athlete in winter, he trained in the cold, accepted fuel when it was offered, and returned to the work of surviving on his own terms.

Snow fell softly over the trail, ready for the next set of footprints.

Step by step.
Paw by paw.
Close enough to count.