Moose Montgomery

Moose’s Story

In 2020, on March 29, my birthday, the worst birthday, I was the CEO of PAWS Humane Society in Columbus, Georgia. COVID had emptied rooms and filled hearts with fear. I couldn’t get home to my family or friends. I was working every day, holding it all together the best I could.

That Saturday, like so many others, I walked to the back of the shelter to make my rounds. In the small-dog area, I saw him: skinny, cattywampus legs, eyes too big for his tired face. He looked up, and our eyes locked. It was like the room went quiet.

His name was Boss back then. I remember thinking, What better birthday present than taking home a dog? Even as the CEO, rules are rules, I called our foster coordinator and completed every step the Department of Agriculture required. That night, I took Boss home. We stopped for a steak and a bottle of wine and ended up watching reruns of The Bachelor. My dogs always sleep with me, and he was no different. The next morning, I woke up to him staring at me, soft, steady, like he was checking to make sure I was real.

He was heartworm positive, so we took a short walk, then I brought him to the shelter with me while I worked. He stayed curled up in my office, then came home again that night. But Sunday, the grief I’d been holding back came rushing in. I’d recently lost my dog Zeus to Cushing’s. My job was relentless. Was I ready for another dog? Monday morning, I carried Boss back to his kennel. I told myself it was practical. All day, I walked back and forth to see him. By late afternoon, the staff smiled and made it official: a Boss for the boss. He was mine. We renamed him Moose.

The years that followed were a whirlwind. We were at the shelter six days a week. Moose was my shadow, my glue. He’d nudge me around 6:30 or 7:00 p.m., his gentle way of saying, “It’s time to go home.” Everyone loved him, the staff, the community, even the mayor. He became a little celebrity at our pet-food pantries and events. People came just to see him. Volunteers lined up to walk him.

One evening I came home from an event and Moose was with Kennedy, the same person who’d been there the day he first arrived. She said, “He just doesn’t seem like himself. Maybe he misses you.” I hugged him and felt them: four hard nodes on his neck. Then I found three more. With my background, I knew. Cancer.

I took him to every clinic I could, Auburn University, Rivertown Veterinary Emergency. The team at Rivertown was incredible. The diagnosis was stage-four lymphoma. It was too late. All we could do was keep him comfortable and loved. Within two weeks, he was gone.

I collapsed. My dad had died two years earlier, my mom the year before. Now Moose. It felt like the floor gave way and the world went quiet. My sister and friends pulled me back into the light.

In the ache of that loss, we created Moose’s March, a 501(c)(3) in Moose’s honor, so another family might have more time, so another dog wouldn’t be found too late. Our mission is early detection and awareness. If we can save even one life in Moose’s name, we’ve done our job.

I like to think Moose is looking down, tail thumping, proud of what love can build out of heartbreak. He was my glue then and my glue now.

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.