I can’t believe I’m actually typing this out, but I need to get this off my chest. My heart is still racing, and I can’t shake the feeling that I just survived something I was never supposed to. I’ve been replaying everything in my head over and over, and I thought sharing it here might help me process what happened.
I live in a small coastal town. We’re used to storms, heavy rains, even the occasional hurricane watch. Most of us just go about our business, stocking up on bottled water and snacks, preparing sandbags, and waiting out whatever Mother Nature throws our way. But this time was different. The meteorologists were warning of a serious storm, and all the local news stations wouldn’t shut up about the possibility of catastrophic flooding. Of course, I’d heard this all before, so I didn’t exactly panic at first.
Still, I did make sure to check on my dogs. I have two – a spirited corgi mix named Rusty and a loyal, gentle border collie named Scout. They’re the loves of my life. We go everywhere together. My family jokes that I treat them like my children, but it’s not really a joke to me. They pretty much are my children.
So, anyway, I was checking on them and making sure they were safe inside the house. I was stacking a few sandbags around the doors, just in case. It was already pouring outside. The wind was rattling the windows. My phone was buzzing like crazy with emergency alerts. I was starting to get that uneasy feeling, the kind that settles in your gut when you know something is going very wrong, very quickly.
But I kept telling myself: “It’s going to pass. It’s just a storm. We’ll be okay.”
Boy, was I wrong.
At around 2 AM, I woke up to the sound of water rushing against the walls. I swear, it sounded like I was sleeping next to a river. I sat up, flicked on the light, and saw that water was already seeping in from under the door. My living room rug was soaked, and the floor was basically a shallow pond.
Rusty was whining and pawing at my bedroom door, and Scout was barking. Both of them sounded terrified, and honestly, I was too. I rushed to the front door, stepping into cold water that was already up to my ankles. I opened the door, and I could see the entire street had turned into a lake. The current was strong enough to carry away trash cans, debris, and who knows what else. It was rising by the minute.
That’s when the power went out. Everything went dark except for the occasional flashes of lightning that lit up the flooded street. I tried to stay calm, but my mind was racing: How high is this water going to get? Do I have time to get out? Can I make it to my car? Where are my keys? Are the dogs going to be okay?
I grabbed a flashlight and checked the back door. Same story: water was pouring in, unstoppable. Within minutes, my entire house was filling up. I could hear neighbors yelling outside, a mix of frantic voices and car horns. I knew we had to leave, but I also knew that if we left, I wasn’t going to do it without my dogs.
Now, here’s the thing: the official emergency instructions around here often say you should head to higher ground or get to the evacuation center as soon as possible. But a lot of those places don’t allow pets, or they have strict rules about certain animals. I’d heard horror stories from other dog owners who’d had to leave their pets behind, or found out they couldn’t bring them once they got to the shelter. The idea of abandoning Rusty and Scout made me feel physically ill.
I couldn’t do it. No matter how dangerous it was, I couldn’t walk out that door without them.
I tried to call some friends or family to see if they could help, maybe pick us up if they had a higher vehicle. But the cell signals were spotty, and no one was picking up. Every minute I spent waiting, the water crept higher. I had to do something. So, I started gathering whatever I could find that might help me wade through this. I put on my tallest boots, grabbed a backpack, tossed in some essentials (water bottles, snacks, dog treats, flashlight, phone charger—though the power was out anyway).
Then I looked at Rusty and Scout. Their eyes were wide, ears flattened. They knew something was really wrong. I leashed them both and carefully opened the front door.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that the force of the water nearly knocked me over right away. It was pushing against my legs, swirling around me. Rusty is smaller, so I ended up picking him up under one arm. Scout is bigger, so I held his leash tight and tried to guide him through the current.
It was absolutely terrifying. The water was freezing. Debris was everywhere—tree branches, trash, random objects floating by. Every step was a gamble, because the ground was slippery and uneven. My flashlight was the only thing helping me see, and even that was basically useless when it was pointed at the water.
By the time I reached the end of my driveway, the water was already up to my waist. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I thought, This is insane. We might not make it. But I pushed forward because there was no turning back. The house was a lost cause at that point.
I could see a few of my neighbors. One older man was on his porch, clinging to the railing, trying to call for help. Another neighbor was in a small fishing boat, which they’d somehow managed to get out of their garage. They were offering rides to anyone who could fit. But that boat was already crammed with people. I yelled out, asking if there was room for me and the dogs, but I knew the answer before they even said it. They shook their heads, apologizing. They were at capacity.
I kept going, focusing on just putting one foot in front of the other. I held Rusty close, and Scout was doing his best to stay afloat. The water was getting deeper with every step.
We must have made it another two blocks when a big wave—probably from a passing rescue truck or something—splashed over me. I lost my footing and fell sideways into the water, letting out this guttural scream as I felt Rusty slip out of my grip. Scout was barking frantically. Everything was chaos for a moment. I thought for sure I was going to lose both dogs. My body felt heavy, weighed down by wet clothes. My flashlight sank.
Somehow, I managed to grab Rusty’s collar. My lungs were burning, my arms shaking from the adrenaline. I remember hearing Scout barking so loud it almost hurt my ears. I pulled myself up, sputtering, and held onto a nearby street sign to get my balance. I checked on Rusty—he was coughing, but alive. Scout was still right there, soaked and trembling, but okay.
At that point, I felt like I had used up every ounce of luck I had.
That’s when I saw a small group of people a little ways ahead, huddled together on a higher patch of ground near the corner store. It was one of the only spots that wasn’t completely submerged yet. They waved me over, shouting that it was safer there. I must have looked like a total wreck, but they helped me onto that patch of ground, helped me sit down, and offered me and the dogs some blankets.
I was shaking so hard I could barely hold the bottle of water they handed me. Rusty and Scout were pressed against me, like they were trying to crawl into my skin to feel safe. I think I cried at that point, just sobbing in relief that we were all still together, still alive.
One of the women in the group mentioned she had a truck parked on a higher street, but we’d have to wade through another few blocks of floodwater to get there. She said she’d drive us to the local church that was acting as a temporary shelter, and that they were letting people bring pets if they had crates. Of course, I didn’t have crates, but I was willing to try anything.
We rested there for a few minutes, trying to gather our strength. The water was still rising, and it was just a matter of time before even that patch of ground would be underwater.
Eventually, we all set out together. It was still dark, still pouring, and the wind was howling. The group moved slowly, supporting each other. Rusty was back in my arms, and Scout was leashed. Every few steps, we’d have to dodge floating debris or step over something. It was surreal, like walking through a scene from a disaster movie. But this was our neighborhood, our reality.
After what felt like hours, we finally made it to the woman’s truck. It was on slightly higher ground, so the water around it was only about knee-deep. She helped me get the dogs in the back seat. The moment we closed the door, I felt a wave of relief. We were cold, soaked, but at least we had a chance to get out of there.
She started the engine, and somehow it roared to life. Driving through flooded streets is a whole new kind of terror, but she handled it like a pro. The truck struggled at points, but it never completely stalled. We saw abandoned cars submerged halfway up their windows. We saw people on rooftops, waving for help. It was horrifying. I felt guilty for being in a vehicle while others were still stranded. But we couldn’t save everyone. We just had to keep moving.
Finally, we reached the church. The parking lot was already half-flooded, but the building itself was on a bit of an incline. Volunteers were outside, guiding people in, and—thankfully—they weren’t turning away dogs. They had a makeshift area set up with tarps, crates, blankets, and bowls for water and food. I almost broke down again when I realized we were safe. At least for the moment.
The volunteers were amazing. They helped me dry off the dogs, gave them some food, and let me know I could stay as long as needed. Rusty and Scout were both exhausted. They fell asleep within minutes of being settled on some blankets. I sat down on the floor next to them, feeling the warmth of the building and listening to the hum of people talking, kids crying, and the sound of water dripping off soaked clothing.
That’s where I am right now, posting this. It’s been a few hours, and the storm has calmed a bit. But we can still hear the rain outside, still see the lightning. We don’t know how long we’ll have to stay here, and I have no idea what’s left of my house. My phone is nearly dead, but I managed to get enough of a signal to share this.
I’m beyond grateful that I got my dogs out. Part of me feels guilty, like I put us all in danger by trying to leave on foot. Maybe I should have stayed on the roof and waited for rescue, or tried to call for a boat. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. They’re my family. And if I had to choose between losing my home or losing them, I’d choose losing my home a hundred times over.
Right now, Rusty and Scout are curled up against me, still shivering a bit, but safe. We’re surrounded by strangers who’ve become like an instant community—sharing food, blankets, and stories of how they escaped. There’s a sense of relief in the air, but also a lot of uncertainty. None of us know how bad the damage will be or how long before we can return to what’s left of our homes.
I can’t help but wonder if we’ll be able to rebuild. Will the insurance cover any of this? How many people lost everything tonight? And how many pets were left behind, never to be found again? The thought makes my chest tighten. I can’t dwell on it too much or I’ll start crying all over again.
But for now, we’re safe. We have shelter, we have each other, and we have at least a moment of calm to catch our breath. My heart is still pounding, and every time the wind gusts against the church doors, I flinch. I can’t stop replaying that moment in the water when I almost lost Rusty.
So that’s where things stand. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe the storm will pass, and we’ll be able to head back to our neighborhood to see if our house is still standing. Maybe we’ll have to relocate, maybe we’ll have to rely on the kindness of friends and strangers for a while.
But one thing I do know: I’m not leaving my dogs behind. Ever. If I learned anything from this nightmare, it’s that no matter how tough things get, I can’t abandon the beings that depend on me. They’ve given me unconditional love, and I owe them my loyalty in return.
I’m posting this partly to vent, partly to remind anyone else out there: If you’re in a disaster situation, and you can safely bring your pets, do it. Don’t let anyone tell you they’re “just animals.” They’re family. And if you have to choose, choose the ones who’ve stood by you. Because at the end of the day, stuff is just stuff. Houses can be repaired or replaced. But a life—especially one that looks to you for care—can’t be replaced.
I don’t know how this will all end. We’re still in the middle of it. But for now, I’m just grateful we made it through the worst part alive. My dogs are here, and so am I, and that’s more than a lot of people can say tonight.
I’ll update if anything changes. Right now, I’m just trying to breathe, to calm down, and to hold onto Rusty and Scout. We’re in for a long night, but at least we’re together. And for me, that’s everything.
Thanks for reading, everyone. Hug your pets extra tight tonight. And if you’re ever faced with the choice, trust me: you’ll never regret saving the ones who love you most.