Max 2004 - 2016

It was love at first sight.

We'd known we wanted a German Shepherd because we'd already tried one on for size. We rescued a GSD puppy named Ruby. She was about 5-months old and beyond cute. What we didn't find out until after she bit my daughter in the face was she'd belonged to a homeless man and had lived on the streets since she was born. One day the owner of the rescue was walking by her, recognized Ruby as a pure-bred GSD, and bought her from him.

Once we brought her home, she slept on the bed with us. Nipped at our heels. And didn't take to training in the slightest. Then, on the fifth day we had her, in what was probably a bit of overactive puppy play, she decided to jump up and have a quick, light chomp on my daughter's face with her razor puppy teeth. She pierced her skin, drew blood and scared my daughter. So Ruby bought herself a one-way ticket back to rescue.

What we learned from the experience was we loved the German Shepherd breed. But we decided we wanted to know a little more about who the dog was and its history.

The day was sunny and warm when we made the congested drive on the 91, then halfway up a hill on an unpaved road out to Thinschmidt Kennels in Corona. They'd just gotten in a litter of German import puppies. It was almost too much cute to bear. In one kennel there were about 5 or 6 playing, all short-haired shepherds except for this one brutally cute fur ball off to the side. He was quieter and less rambunctious than the rest.

I knew the minute I saw him he was the one.

My wife was drawn more to his sister, one of the short-haired ones. But almost at the exact same time she was telling me this, the fur ball got up, came over, sat on my wife's feet and looked up at her.

It's a good thing stealing hearts is legal in Corona.

We used to joke that Max never read the German Shepherd manual. He had no idea how scary or mean he was supposed to be. Not to say he was a pushover, but he wasn't a high-strung shepherd that was tightly wound and always on alert. He was a sweet guy - unless you were the postman, a stranger coming up our walkway or someone he didn't like when my daughter was walking him.

I used to tell Max to sit. Then I'd put a chicken treat halfway in my mouth, lean over, and he'd bare his teeth, get right up to my face and gently take it from me. When I did this in front of some people, it scared the hell out of them. All I heard was how they'd never let a dog like Max get that close to their face. And sure, I suppose the fear with some German Shepherds would be getting your face ripped off. But the thought never crossed my mind. Or his. That's not who he was.

He especially loved to roughhouse in the backyard with my wife, because she was the one who'd really get into it with him. She gave as good as she got, and she was proud of the souvenir bruises up and down her arms that came from their play. When she'd hold his ball before she threw it, he'd jump up and grab her arm with his teeth to try and get it. He'd never bite down, he'd just hold her arm in his mouth like a Golden Retriever.

Maybe it's not so much he didn't read the manual as he read the wrong one.

Max's fighting weight was between 85-92 lbs. He wasn't a small dog, but because we saw him every day we never thought of him as large - he was just our dog. However every once in awhile, when someone approaching us would suddenly give him a terrified look then cross the street to pass us, or the pizza delivery guy jumped back five feet off my front porch when he saw me holding Max at the door, we'd remember he wasn't exactly a chihuahua.

Because he was a long-haired GSD and a lot of people had never seen one before, they loved to tell us he was a mixed breed and not a pure bred. This was despite the fact we'd seen pictures of his parents in Germany, knew his bloodline going back five generations and had papers on him. Oh yeah, and he was our dog. We always got a kick out of it.

Max had a lot of nicknames, but my favorite was the one my wife gave him: The Gunslinger. It was because in the middle of the night, he'd decide to come into our bedroom and sleep on the big pillow we had for him on the floor in there. He'd slam our bedroom door open like saloon doors in the old west, then he'd come and crash down on his pillow.

It only gave us heart attacks for the first five or six years.

When we got Max, the breeder stressed how important it was to socialize German Shepherds, even more so than most breeds. He was a large dog, and he had to be comfortable around people. So it seemed to me a few bring-a-dog-to-work days was a good place to start.

Almost everyone who came in contact with Max loved him for how beautiful he was inside and out. I worked at Y&R when I started socializing Max, and I brought him in a few times to get him used to strangers (and believe me, nobody's stranger than people who work in ad agencies - BAM!). After people met him, they weren't strangers very long.

Kurt Brushwyler, Ben Peters, Johanna Joseph Peters, Debbie Lavdas, Imke Daniel, Cameron Young, Amy Cook, Zac Ryder, Leroy Tellez, Janice MacLeod and Cecilia Gorman, thank you for loving on Max so much in those early days. He hadn't been exposed to a lot of people at that point, and your kindness, caring and demonstration of love towards him gave him a sense of confidence and security, and taught him from the beginning people weren't something to be afraid of.

I don't know if you all remember doing that. I'll never forget it.

Here's another thing: even though Max was the dog-liest of dogs, he was cat like in that it often seemed he had nine lives.

Years ago he had what turned out to be a bacterial infection that caused him to stumble and fall, off balance and confused. At first we were told it was likely a brain tumor. Fortunately, our close friend David Feldman is one of the premier diagnostic veterinarians in the country. We told him Max's symptoms, sent him the tests, and he prescribed antibiotics. It cleared up in a few days.

About three years ago, my wife noticed Max was being lethargic and not his usual self. Her Jedi instincts jumped into action, and she rushed him to the vet where they discovered a giant mass on his spleen which could rupture and kill him at any minute. Again, we turned to David, who arranged for us to bring Max to his practice where there was a surgeon and team standing by at midnight on a Saturday night. At two o'clock in the morning, we got a call Max had come through his spleen-ectomy just swimmingly.

It was not lost on us how close we came to losing him, and we've always considered every day since then gravy.

There was also the time he had his ass kicked by the neighbor's cat, and almost got his eyes clawed out. I'm certain he wouldn't want you to know about that.

In the past few days, he'd been lethargic in the extreme. Not getting up to walk, eat or pee. We took him to the vet, who saw right away he was critically anemic. After some x-rays, he discovered a large mass in the cavity where his spleen had been. It was crushing his intestines, and he was bleeding internally either from it or through it from his liver or kidneys.

There were options, including surgery. But because his red cell count was so low, he never would've survived it. We could've transfused him, but because he was bleeding internally, it would've been like a leaky bucket, going in his vein, bleeding out inside and not doing any good at all along the way. None of the options were promising or guaranteed - except to cause him pain, vastly reduce his quality of life and confuse and scare the hell out of him. He was 11 years old. We weren't going to put him through it.

It's almost always a lose-lose situation when your brain has to win out over your heart.

Since my parents never owned a house, we lived in apartments my whole life. In fact the house I'm in now is the first one I've ever lived in. I could never have dogs growing up. Max was my first. Thanks to him, I know I'll never be without a German Shepherd.

Max also had a very special trick. We didn't train him to do it, he just did it. His trick was making each one of us feel as if he loved us the most (although if I had to place money on it, I'd bet on my daughter). Max will always be the dog of our lives.

So we move on, grateful for having had him as long as we did, and finding peace knowing he's running free in greener pastures. As real dog lovers like to say, he's crossed over the Rainbow Bridge, and he'll be waiting.

It's a crazy world, and the older I get the less sure I am of anything. But there are two things I can say with absolute certainty: Max was well loved every single minute of his beautiful life.

And so were we.

Act fast, and you'll always have Paris

UPDATE: As a rule I don't usually repost pieces here. But today is different than every other day, because today PARIS LETTERS has been selected as a Kindle Daily Deal. It will be featured on the Kindle deal homepage for $2.99 under biographies/memoirs, as well as on Kindle store on all devices. And you can get your copy today just by going here. So (re)read the post, then get the book. You're welcome.

One time I said to my great friend (more on that in a second) Janice MacLeod, "I'm a giver." To which she replied, "Giver? You hardly know her!"

This of course is one of the many reasons I love Janice.

I met Janice when we worked together at the advertising agency Y&R in Orange County. I remember us both complaining about the commute one day, and we came up with a solution. Every morning, she’d have her coffee, then make the slow, excruciating drive from her apartment in Santa Monica to my house in Long Beach. Then we'd hop in my car and fly in the carpool lane from my place to the agency.

And we'd talk about everything.

The problem was we always seemed to have way more things to talk about than time to talk about them. And while I don’t remember each and every subject we covered, I do recall there was a lot of laughing in the car. It was the best part of the work day for me. I’ll assume it was for her. What the hell, she’s not here to say otherwise.

What with all the talking, confiding, gossiping, joking, planning, singing, eye-rolling in meetings and saying the same thing at the same time, Janice quickly became my “office wife.”

It’s a tribute to Janice and the person she is that my real-life wife approved (which is also a tribute to my real-life wife).

There are so many things to admire about Janice it’s hard to know where to start, so I’ll start here – Not only did she think about leaving her job in advertising, a job that was making her profoundly unhappy, to pursue the life she wanted, she actually did it. That new life included traveling the world, unburdened by time or possessions, and leaving herself open to whatever experiences she chose to have along the way. She planned it, figured out how much money she’d need and saved for it.

Dare I say it’s a dream shared by, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah, everyone.

I had dinner with Janice at Joe’s in Venice the night before she left for France. It was a great dinner, one of those “why don’t we do this more often” dinners. Here's one thing I remember from that meal: I don’t want to spill any state secrets, but let's just say her fall from a full vegan diet may have started a little before she fell in love with and married a butcher.

Another thing to admire is she wrote a book about the experience. Paris Letters is the third book Janice has written in the warm, humorous, observational, razor-sharp, inclusive style that is her voice.

She is what I like to call a real writer.

As opposed to myself, who’s still waiting to be found out by the word police.

The book journals her decision, her travels, meeting and falling in love with her now real-life husband Krzystzof, who is a butcher by trade and apparently has invested heavily in the consonant market.

In Paris Letters, there is a Thank You page, and the very first person Janice thanks is me. Shortly after that, she thanks Bruce Springsteen for writing Thunder Road.

Coincidence? I think not.

I haven’t read the entire book yet, but so far the Thank You page is my favorite part.

But if I’m going to be honest with myself – and if you know anything about me you know how rarely that happens – it is I who should be thanking her.

She was the one who encouraged me to start this blog when I told her I have nothing to write about (something that after 472 posts, many people would still agree with). She always says that venom is my best medium, but that’s mostly about the snarkier posts. She is equally supportive of the vast majority of them that are not written in that tone. She is living proof that there is nothing getting in the way of your dreams but yourself - always a good lesson to keep in mind. And she comments on my posts, which of course all bloggers love.

At that dinner the night before she left to travel the world, I told her that if it didn't work out to just say the word and I'd fly over and bring her back. That offer still stands.

Although I'm beyond happy for her knowing that with her new life, the life she's made for herself, the life she wanted, she won't be taking me up on it.

No no, thank you

One time I said to my great friend (more on that in a second) Janice MacLeod, "I'm a giver." To which she replied, "Giver? You hardly know her!"

This of course is one of the many reasons I love Janice.

I met Janice when we worked together at the advertising agency Y&R in Orange County. I remember us both complaining about the commute one day, and we came up with a solution. Every morning, she’d have her coffee, then make the slow, excruciating drive from her apartment in Santa Monica to my house in Long Beach. Then we'd hop in my car and fly in the carpool lane from my place to the agency.

And we'd talk about everything.

The problem was we always seemed to have way more things to talk about than time to talk about them. And while I don’t remember each and every subject we covered, I do recall there was a lot of laughing in the car. It was the best part of the work day for me. I’ll assume it was for her. What the hell, she’s not here to say otherwise.

What with all the talking, confiding, gossiping, joking, planning, singing, eye-rolling in meetings and saying the same thing at the same time, Janice quickly became my “office wife.”

It’s a tribute to Janice and the person she is that my real-life wife approved (which is also a tribute to my real-life wife).

There are so many things to admire about Janice it’s hard to know where to start, so I’ll start here – Not only did she think about leaving her job in advertising, a job that was making her profoundly unhappy, to pursue the life she wanted, she actually did it. That new life included traveling the world, unburdened by time or possessions, and leaving herself open to whatever experiences she chose to have along the way. She planned it, figured out how much money she’d need and saved for it.

Dare I say it’s a dream shared by, what’s the word I’m looking for…oh yeah, everyone.

I had dinner with Janice at Joe’s in Venice the night before she left for France. It was a great dinner, one of those “why don’t we do this more often” dinners. Here's one thing I remember from that meal: I don’t want to spill any state secrets, but let's just say her fall from a full vegan diet may have started a little before she fell in love with and married a butcher.

Another thing to admire is she wrote a book about the experience. Paris Letters is the third book Janice has written in the warm, humorous, observational, razor-sharp, inclusive style that is her voice.

She is what I like to call a real writer.

As opposed to myself, who’s still waiting to be found out by the word police.

The book journals her decision, her travels, meeting and falling in love with her now real-life husband Krzystzof, who is a butcher by trade and apparently has invested heavily in the consonant market.

In Paris Letters, there is a Thank You page, and the very first person Janice thanks is me. Shortly after that, she thanks Bruce Springsteen for writing Thunder Road.

Coincidence? I think not.

I haven’t read the entire book yet, but so far the Thank You page is my favorite part.

But if I’m going to be honest with myself – and if you know anything about me you know how rarely that happens – it is I who should be thanking her.

She was the one who encouraged me to start this blog when I told her I have nothing to write about (something that after 472 posts, many people would still agree with). She always says that venom is my best medium, but that’s mostly about the snarkier posts. She is equally supportive of the vast majority of them that are not written in that tone. She is living proof that there is nothing getting in the way of your dreams but yourself - always a good lesson to keep in mind. And she comments on my posts, which of course all bloggers love.

At that dinner the night before she left to travel the world, I told her that if it didn't work out to just say the word and I'd fly over and bring her back. That offer still stands.

Although I'm beyond happy for her knowing that with her new life, the life she's made for herself, the life she wanted, she won't be taking me up on it.

Danny

I don’t know if other industries are like this, but the ad community is a small one. Especially in L.A. Because of that, you wind up seeing a lot of the same faces at different agencies around town. Sometimes a good thing, sometimes not.

In the case of Danny Alegria, it was more than a good thing: it was a blessing.

Danny either worked in the studio or was the studio manager at three agencies I had the good fortune to work with him at: DBC, DDB and Y&R.

Ad agencies just love their initials don’t they?

Danny was always a bright light in what could be a dark environment. Being in the studio, he was ground zero for stressed out account and creative people throwing fits when it came to getting something they usually needed yesterday out the door to a client, or materials for a big presentation or new business pitches.

Regardless of the pressure and tantrums that came his way, he had a good word for everyone (something extremely difficult to do at agencies). And there was never a question about him getting what you needed done.

Even though I’d known him for years, I’d never really sat down and talked to him until one very slow day at Y&R about nine or ten years ago. We wound up sitting down and literally talking for over three hours. He told me about his time in the Navy, his background as a singer, his years as a jockey, exactly how horseracing worked (not the way you’d think or hope), his family and more.

I couldn’t believe this fascinating person had been steps away from me for years, and yet only now was I just discovering who he was and learning about him.

I had always loved horseracing. In fact, when I was in college I loved it a little too much, to the tune of rent money on occasion. Danny and I made an agreement we’d take a trip out to Santa Anita, and he’d give me the lowdown on the horses and be my betting Yoda.

Sadly, we never got to make that trip.

Danny was diagnosed with cancer. But like everything else in my experience with him, he handled it with grace, honesty and dignity.

He would post unflinchingly on Facebook about how he was doing - the progress of both the treatment and the disease.

As to be expected with cancer as widespread as his had become, there were good days and bad days. But even on the bad days, the really bad ones, there would be a thread of optimism.

On one of his good days, he invited me to come see him give what he knew would be his last singing performance. I wouldn't have missed it. Not only did I get to see Danny perform, I got to see a lot of long, lost friends from agencies past we'd worked with over the years, who were also out in force to show support for him, and his talent that we didn't get to see nearly enough.

Danny was in great form that day, but it tired him out. It was easy to see the toll his cancer was taking.

I would text back and forth with him. I told him I'd come out to where he lived in Riverside and take him to lunch, or if he wasn't up to going out, bring it to him and we'd eat at his place and talk about the race track. I believe he was confined to his bed at that point, but even so he just told me he wasn't feeling well, but as soon as he rallied we'd do it.

Shortly after that conversation, on July 10, 2012, Danny died at the age of 60.

For me, it's certainly a personal loss, as I know it is for his family. But it's bigger than that: it's a global one. The world simply can't afford to lose people as decent, caring and loving as Danny always was to not just his family and friends, but everyone he encountered.

His Facebook page is still active, and every now and then I find myself re-reading some of the posts he put up as he was going through his ordeal. They are honest, inspiring, funny, heartbreaking and hopeful. I'm also friends with his daughter on there, and though I've never met her in person I feel as though we have a strong connection.

She is funny, bright and optimistic. Just like her old man.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about Danny and the meal together I was so looking forward to.

It's comforting knowing he's finally resting in well-deserved peace.

And that he's making heaven a much more rockin' place.