Three years ago today, my dog Taxi would spend his last night in a shelter. January 28, 2000 would be the last night he wouldn’t have a family who would keep him forever, no matter what. Never again would Taxi know rejection. Or abandonment. Or abuse.
Starting the morning of January 29, 2000, he would know nothing but love, attention, and affection. Sometimes I tell my friends it’s almost criminal how much I love this dog.

He was brought into the shelter the first time with his “brother” (the dog he lived with), a Pit Bull. (Taxi is a German Shepherd.) The people who brought him in came back for the Pit Bull, but not for him. Eventually someone, a student, did take Taxi home, but brought him back to the shelter because Taxi tore up his apartment.
The DOG found Taxi while searching online for another German Shepherd after Max, his gorgeous all-black German Shepherd and best friend of ten years, died on January 22, 2000. Taxi’s name at the shelter was Max. It seemed like fate. Kismet. Luck. Or, as I like to think of it, like the first Max passed the baton (shaped like a bone, of course!) to the next.
We decided that we couldn’t call the new dog Max. It would just be too sad. So we had to come up with something that wouldn’t confuse the poor guy. Of course, that meant it had to rhyme. So I went through the alphabet (I’m smart that way!). Ax … Bax … Cax … Iax … Qax …
“Tax!!!” I yelled, a modern-day Archimedes (without the messy bath water). It was perfect. The DOG, after all, was a tax lawyer (in addition to being a major Broadway producer). But that seemed just a little too obvious (like having TAX-ESQ on a vanity license plate), so I added an “i”. Because everyone knows that adding an “ee” sound to the end of a name makes it cuter.
So “Taxi” stuck. And he’s been sticking around with us ever since.