I’m awfully sorry to report that we lost our beloved dog RooRoo (Rusty) at the end of last year.

The doctors believe that he had a brain tumor and possibly suffered a stroke.

RooRoo was one of two dogs I have loved more than any other in my lifetime.

He was a rescue, severely traumatized when we got him.

But he grew into the fun-loving and affectionate if sometimes standoffish dog that we all adored — me especially.

Before I sorted through our photos of him (for this post), I was worried that seeing images of him would make me too sad to write about him.

But instead the opposite happened: they reminded me of how much fun he had in life and how fun he was to be with.

That’s one of my favorites: him cooling down after a long walk at Willow Water Hole. He loved going on long walks and exploring new scents.

During the early months of Covid, when I was struggling to pay the bills, he would sit up with me through the long cold nights, my faithful companion in some of the toughest times.

For all his peccadillos, he was the best dog I could have had. I genuinely loved and still love and miss him with every fiber in my body.

RooRoo, you were and will always be the ‘best dog ever,’ just like I used to tell you in the truck on the way back from the reservoir, remember? Your brother Paco and I talk about you every day and he misses you chewing on his ear, the price of admission to the bed. RooRoo, when you were dying, I told mamma that I didn’t know how I could live without you. I’m still here, RooRoo, but our lives will never be the same. You used to hate the Houston storms, sweet boy. There’s only one thing that gives me comfort: there’s no thunder in heaven. I’ll find you there as soon as I can, I promise, and we will be together again. I promise, sweet RooRoo. I love you.

Brother Aaron, nearly 70 years have passed since you were born. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you.

Just last May, while we were in Chicago for a family reunion, I saw our distant cousin Daniel J. in Hyde Park where we all lived when we were born.

Daniel is a pediatrician. He was a co-founder of the “Lab” school for kids at U. of Chicago where you studied before we moved to California. He spoke earnestly and eagerly of his fond memories.

Your best friend from the Lab school, Professor W., has always stayed in touch with me. We’ve even shared a bottle of Nebbiolo or two as we talked about your life.

He’s a famous law professor at Harvard. Every time he and I connect, I am reminded of how Judy used to say that you would have been the first Jewish U.S. Attorney General.

When I got to La Jolla High School, so many of my teachers told me that they expected a lot out of Aaron Parzen’s younger brother. I tried my best, brother, to follow in your footsteps.

My memories of you are hazy: I was five when you died, you were 15. Judy used to tell me how much you adored me and took me everywhere you went.

I have strong, crystal-clear memories of the day you died. And the day we buried you, in the same plot where Judy is now buried. I can see the scene in my mind like it was yesterday.

You couldn’t be there with me on New Year’s as I sat alone in the early hours of a rainy La Jolla morning and dug through our mom’s photography and papers.

But you were in my heart, as you always are.

I barely knew you but I miss you more now than ever.

Four tragedies shaped the arc of our family’s troubled life. The second of those was your death, the tragic outcome of a misguided teenage road trip. The photo above was taken not long before you died.

Know that no matter what happens, I will always speak your name. And my children will, too. And they will tell their children about you. We will always speak your name. I love you.

Above: the last sunrise I’ll most likely ever see in my mom’s La Jolla apartment. That’s the full moon.

Last week, Tracie, the girls, and I traveled to La Jolla for family vacation. I spent the better part of the week sorting through my mom’s apartment and shipping precious photography and other documents back to Texas where I plan to build an archive for her.

We had planned to gather as a family in La Jolla, earlier in the month, the first weekend in December, although without our daughters — just me and Tra, my brothers and their wives. The mission was to dig through the apartment, leaf through hand-written memories people had shared at the memorial, spend a day, maybe a meal together, reminiscing.

Some days before our trip, brother Micah called to say that he unexpectedly wouldn’t be there that weekend. He was traveling outside San Diego for a soccer game. He would sort through the things on his own and inform us as to what he was taking.

That wasn’t what we planned, I protested.

It was a complicated weekend for us but we had figured it out. A Herculean effort, with a bar mitzvah, an audition, and a friend’s recital for the girls to attend. I turned down a juicy gig with my band. Tra put clients on hold. Her parents cancelled their participation in a credit union board event (Randy’s mayor of West Orange).

Micah, how could you do this?, I pleaded. This is really messing us up.

I have to do what I have to do for my mental health, he said.

A soccer game?

We rescheduled for our winter break. Not only did he not meet me. He didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me that he was punking me again — a pattern through our lives. No call, no show.

Thing is, his soccer team lost and there was no match that first weekend of December. It was all just a game he was playing.

How can he dishonor the memory of our mother like this?

Some years ago he changed the name of his museum from the Museum of Man to the Museum of Us. I applauded at the time.

Seems his next project is Museum of Me.

.דאָס איז אַ שאַנדע און אַ חרפּה

What kind of person just stands by and says nothing as someone in their presence makes overtly racist comments in casual or professional conversation?

If you need me to answer that question, I suggest you do some serious soul-searching.

I’ve recently been forced into a regrettable business deal with two persons I can’t mention here.

The leader of the group was tasked with hiring an agent to procure the sale of a highly valuable asset.

Party 1 and party 2 met an agent without me. In his recap of the meeting, party 1 neglected to tell me that the agent had made vile comments about Muslims during the encounter.

In a separate meeting with party 2, they informed me about the conversation. They, like party 1, chose not to say anything to the offender.

When I learned of the offensive language, I confronted party 1 with this info.

Their answer? The agent just happened to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. Stop being the “word police”! The agent just happens to talk like that. Hell, even I talk like that!, they said.

That doesn’t fly at our house, I’m sorry to inform them.

Here’s what we teach our children.

When someone makes a racist comment, the first thing you do is make sure that you are safe (get out right away if you fear violence).

Once you’re sure you’re safe, tell that person that such language is not acceptable in your presence and ask them politely to refrain from making such comments.

How can we call ourselves friends of Muslims — friends of anyone! — if we don’t defend them when they are not in the room?

Racism in any context is wrong and must be called out. That’s the rule in this Parzen household.

It takes some people longer than others to understand how dangerous and harmful comments like that can be. They may need some grace to get there. But if they don’t, they are no friends of ours.

When you hear someone say something racist, say something!