Top Tweets for #savemajor

➡️ MAJOR UPDATE: TODAY IS DAY 546. The Federal Preliminary Injunction hearing is tomorrow, Sept. 29, 2026 at 1:30pm CT in Austin. What does that mean? Can Major be freed tomorrow? 🚫 NO STEP ONE: SEPT 9 On Sept 9 Shane Lilly and his brilliant new lawyer filed a 'Hail Mary" Federal Civil Rights Case against the City of Austin. Major was scheduled to be killed on Sept 11. NOTE: A federal civil-rights lawsuit ❌🟰 appeal. They are not the same thing. Judge Ezra immediately sent some very hard questions for Christina to answer, and in a very short window. She did, and he accepted it. I have massive respect for a judge that moves that quickly in a known slow system. Christina got the EMERGENCY TRO granted on Sept 10 -- and she got it in record time—2 days! 😮👏 ⏳ It was only short-term protection to prevent euthanasia so the Judge could then decide if that protection should continue through the federal case. 🥰 On Sept 24, Judge Ezra also granted an (unopposed) extension, keeping Major alive until October 8. STEP TWO: SEPT 29 Tomorrow's PI hearing is the next stage. ❌ It is NOT the trial. ❌ It does NOT finally decide the civil-rights lawsuit. It is an evidentiary hearing where Shane has to prove why he needs continued protection for Major while his federal case is being heard. It does not have to wait for final judgment. This could be a LONG federal lawsuit. NORMAL FEDERAL CASE PROCEDURES Not all federal cases go through all steps, and procedural motions/appeals can change the order. We may see answers/motions attacking the complaint, scheduling orders, discovery, written requests for evidence, depositions, expert disclosures, summary judgment, settlement proceedings, or—if claims remain unresolved—TRIAL. TOMORROW DOES NOT BEGIN AT ZERO The judge already knows an enormous amount before anybody walks into the courtroom. There has been a ton of briefing filed already. ⚖️ Christina filed the emergency motion + supporting evidence -> Austin filed its opposition + state-court record -> Christina filed her reply + evidentiary objections. THE ARGUMENTS Shane and Austin disagree over the characterization + significance of alleged previous bites, service-animal evidence, shelter behavior, the original provoked incident, alternatives to destruction, and what the state proceedings actually adjudicated. ✅ Just because it is IN the record, does NOT make it FACT. Let's remember that. AUSTIN 🗣️The City of Austin's arguments: -- Austin argues Shane had ample due process. The state courts already adjudicated the underlying dispute and Shane had 14 judges say the same thing + Judge Ezra would be #15. —and this is Austin's strongest argument? Weak IMO. 🫠 -- that Rooker-Feldman + 'preclusion' prevent Shane from using federal court like another appeal trial -- they shouldn't be sued because because the state court ordered the destruction of Major, they did not...seriously⁉️ -- the ADA doesn't give MAJOR independent rights -- the evidence of Major's bite + behavior supports its public-safety/direct-threat claims CHRISTINA/SHANE The state judgment can stay where it is while we challenge separate conduct + federal obligations that the Chapter 822 proceeding did NOT decide or hear. 🐕 Shane/Christina's arguments: -- He isn't asking to reverse the state destruction order. -- He's claiming his OWN independent federal rights as a US disabled citizen (not Major's 🙄) under Title II of the ADA (Disabilities Act), based on Austin's own present administration of its animal-services program. -- Austin cannot destroy his service animal without complying with those independent federal obligations, including consideration of a reasonable modification and an individualized assessment of Major. LOL FACT 💯 When disability evidence was raised in Shane's earlier trials, the State objected to portions of it as outside the Chapter 822 proceeding, and they got their way. "The City cannot have it both ways." So, yeah—you did that to yourself Austin. 🤌 -- AUSTIN has Major -- AUSTIN sought the warrant -- AUSTIN HAS ISOLATED MAJOR FOR 546 DAYS -- AUSTIN charges to house Major -- AUSTIN CRUELLY selected the DISTASTEFUL 9/11 destruction date -- AUSTIN would administer the euthanasia 👉 YES AUSTIN—YOU SHOULD BE THE ONE BEING SUED. 🤔 Notably, Austin did NOT dispute that Major’s death would cause irreparable harm, and Christina argues it offered NO evidence the PI itself WOULD cause harm.🤔 🧑‍⚖️ WHAT MIGHT TOMORROW'S PI LOOK LIKE? -- Judge Ezra may hear legal argument from both sides -- He may ask counsel questions -- He may address jurisdiction/preclusion first -- He may take evidence or testimony -- He may deal with evidentiary objections -- He may drill into the four PI factors -- He may rule right there...and he may not -- He may take time to review everything + issue a written ruling later To be GRANTED a preliminary injunction, Christina + Shane have to prove four things: 1) likelihood of success on the merits 2) irreparable harm without preliminary relief 3) balance of harms/equities 4) whether the injunction serves or harms the public interest—including the competing considerations raised here about public safety and compliance with federal civil-rights law NOTE: "Public interest” does NOT mean how many members of the public support Major or show up tomorrow. ‼️‼️ THE MAIN QUESTION SHE MUST ANSWER Has Shane met the legal requirements (above) for preliminary injunctive relief while his federal claims are litigated? ☯️ If the PI is GRANTED—it provides preliminary protection from Major's destruction under whatever terms Judge Ezra orders while the federal litigation continues. It is NOT a final judgment. ☯️ If the PI is DENIED—it does NOT automatically decide every claim in Shane's federal complaint. A PI ruling is also generally immediately appealable. ➡️ We may not even get a ruling tomorrow. The judge may need more time to decide. That is not always a bad thing. I will be there supporting Christina, Shane and Major tomorrow, and I'll share what I can afterward. #SAVEMAJOR #SAVESNUGGLES #SAVEATLAS 🐶🐶 --next, a Snuggles + an Atlas update!

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: https://t.co/zFg5xeYwZk) 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

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: https://t.co/zFg5xeYwZk) 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

What a gut-wrenching and at the same time heart-warming message. I pray the cruel insensitive bureaucrats still keeping Snuggles, Atlas and Major from their homes and families will open their hearts to the pain they are causing the dogs and the people who love them - and stop this cruel abuse.