There is an irony in finding myself defending dogs declared dangerous. One of my first memories is a terror of dogs so complete I can still name its source. One morning in the early 1980s, my mother hitched a trailer to her bicycle and loaded my sister Beth and me into it for a ride around the island. Mom was — and still is — an accomplished cyclist. She and my dad had ridden across Europe and the Pacific Northwest. She could fly. Beth and I faced backward, lost in our own world, repeating an invented line we found hysterically funny: “Moon in the potty!” We had no idea what it meant. We only knew the sound of the words sent us into helpless laughter, loud enough that Mom heard us over the wind in her face, even though we were facing the other direction. Looking at the road behind us, we saw what she could not. A neighbor’s German Shepherd, "Goldie" — poorly socialized, unloved, and mean because its owners were usually too stoned to care and probably beat the poor thing — had gotten loose and locked onto us. We watched, helpless, as it closed the distance, barking ferociously, fangs bared. We screamed. Mom leaned into the pedals. The ten-speed Peugeot surged. Beth and I rocked forward. It wasn’t enough. Not by a lot. In a few seconds, Goldie was on the trailer, teeth sunk into the fabric. I covered my little sister. I closed my eyes. I don’t remember the rest. What I do remember is fearing dogs in a way that struck all my friends as irrational. I carried that fear for years. I didn’t want to see a dog, let alone own one. When I was eleven, a friend lent me the classic by Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows. I fell in love with Little Ann and Old Dan. Not long after that, I was at one of Beth’s soccer games when I heard whimpering from a big Texas Instruments box on the sideline. A crowd had gathered around it. I walked over. Five or six Labrador puppies were inside. The man who had brought them — one of the players’ dads — handed me a healthy-looking golden pup. It started licking my hands. But my eyes went to a little brown puppy curled quietly in the corner of the box. “You don’t want her,” the man said. “She’s the runt. This one’s healthier.” That sold me. I was taking the little brown runt home with me that day. By the time we got there, we had named her Mocha, given her a voice, and invented a backstory. “I’m from Texas,” she would tell us. “A little place called Instruments.” Mocha didn’t shut up for the next fifteen years. I never feared another dog after that. Ironically, we had a terrible neighbor then who tried to have Mocha declared a dangerous dog. He had no reason beyond bitterness. There was no basis for the claim, and it was the early nineties, when everything was better, including Animal Control's work. Mocha lived a charmed life. (More about Mocha: nitter.cf/brendanmjones/status/2…) He was seriously the worst. He shot my sister’s pet rabbit in our own yard, then later stabbed his own cat to make it look as if local kids had been up to no good when the sheriff came around. We had proof it was him. A basic forensic look showed the round had been fired from the direction of his porch. On the night of the incident, we saw him and his wife moving around secretly inside their house with candles. The next day, when we asked if they had seen anything, they answered, guiltily, “We weren’t even home last night.” We hadn’t said it happened "last night." And yes, they were. We had seen them. He went on to shoot another neighbor’s dog. In the stomach. The dog survived, but barely. The banality of evil. Poetically, his last name was Hook. I am delighted now to find myself on the side of the Lucys, Snuggles, Majors, and the other Lost Boys wrongfully condemned — yes, even the Goldies — standing up against the Hooks of this world, even if they have the law on their side. #SaveSnuggles

Saving Snuggles: Pima County Court Case Part 1 youtu.be/QVhzDYTNomo?si=0uwB… via @YouTube. This 11 minutes is worth your time to get the true picture of what’s going on here. Remember, this could be you someday. The government is running roughshod over this family’s rights. Snuggles is not property, he’s family❣️

Isn’t there anyone in this country that can help #SaveSnuggles? He’s been held in solitary without family visits for a year. Career criminals spend less time in jail than this poor innocent animal. @JudgeJeanine @POTUS @animalcruelty @dojphofficial

🚨🚨🚨🚨 @SecKennedy @USDA @HHSGov @TheJusticeDept, @EPA, @LaraLeaTrump PLEASE HEAR OUR CRIES TO #SAVESNUGGLES WE ARE HIS VOICE SCREAMING FOR HELP. HE HAS BEEN BEEN IN A CAGE BEING DRUGGED for almost a literal year 😔🙏The video below explains it all. @BDRRescue,@POTUS’s IF you are true to your word that you are an administration who will continue to fight for animal welfare, or as Bobby said: we’re going to Make America Humane Again. 🙏🐾Please look into this disgusting animal abuse in Pima County Arizona PACC and #SAVESNUGGLES case 1st thing TOMORROW morning 🐾🙏 Thank you in advance for helping this Vertern family. Lord, please continue to protect Snuggles and his family in your loving arms. We know you have the strength and POWER to take the rath to these people in Pima County and expose their disgust. It is one year. It is time 🤬 youtu.be/QVhzDYTNomo?si=yvDY…