Hey everyone,
I never thought I’d be posting something like this, but here I am, heart still racing and hands still trembling. I feel like I need to get it off my chest, so here goes. Let me set the stage:
I live in a small coastal town that people usually describe as “charming.” The kind of place where everyone knows everyone else, and you can walk from one end of Main Street to the other in about ten minutes if you’re not in a hurry. It’s one of those spots that somehow feels stuck in time—in a comforting way—like it’s untouched by the hustle of the outside world. But yesterday, all of that changed.
We’d been hearing warnings for days about an incoming storm, but you know how it goes. People get jaded. Every year there’s talk of flooding, and it’s always “not as bad as they say,” or “we’ll be fine, we’ve seen worse.” I used to be one of those people—until now.
I woke up early, like 5 a.m. or so, because I heard something that sounded like thunder, but it was continuous, almost like a rumble that wouldn’t stop. I peeked out my bedroom window and nearly dropped my phone. The streets were already filling with water. And I don’t mean a little puddle at the curb—I mean water that was halfway up to my mailbox.
That’s when my heart started pounding. My two dogs, Luna (a black Labrador mix) and Rusty (a brownish-red hound mix), were still curled up in the living room, oblivious to the chaos unfolding outside. I rushed to check the local weather alerts on my phone. Sure enough, there were multiple warnings: flash floods, strong winds, possible evacuations. People were panicking in the local Facebook group, talking about rising water levels that were way beyond anything we’d seen before.
I ran to wake up my roommate, who was frantically trying to gather some of her valuables. We were both shaking, trying to figure out if we should stay put or attempt to leave. Then, at around 6 a.m., we got an official alert on our phones telling us to evacuate immediately if possible.
The problem was, by that point, the water was already up to my knees on the front porch. My car was partially submerged. I tried to start it, but the engine wouldn’t even turn over. We had no idea what to do. I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, but my first reaction was just blind panic. My mind was going in circles: “Do we wait for rescue? Do we wade out on foot? Should we go to the roof?”
My roommate decided to check on our neighbor, who’s an older gentleman living alone. Meanwhile, I scrambled to find the dog leashes. Luna and Rusty could sense my anxiety, and they were whimpering at the door. I clipped their leashes on and tried to open the door, but the force of the water was insane. It nearly knocked me over when I finally managed to push it open.
The flood outside was like a raging river. I could see cars drifting away, trash cans floating by, and random debris swirling around. Some neighbors were already out in the street, clinging to anything stable—telephone poles, fences, you name it.
That’s when someone shouted at me from across the street, something along the lines of, “Leave the dogs! You can’t carry them both!” It felt like a punch to the gut. There was no way in hell I was leaving Luna and Rusty behind. These dogs are like my children. They’re family. The thought of abandoning them in that rising water… I just couldn’t. It wasn’t even an option.
But I’ll admit, a small part of me was terrified. The water was so strong, and both dogs were shaking, not understanding what was happening. Luna is about 60 pounds, and Rusty is closer to 50. That’s a lot of extra weight to manage in waist-deep water with a strong current.
I remember taking a deep breath, looking at them, and just saying, “Come on, guys, let’s do this.” It’s funny how your brain can go into survival mode so quickly. I unhooked their leashes because they were getting tangled, and I just scooped them up—one under each arm. Luna’s paws were scratching at my chest as she tried to find a grip, and Rusty was whining like he’d never whined before. My arms felt like they might give out at any second, but adrenaline is a powerful thing.
Stepping off my porch felt like jumping into the unknown. The water immediately surged around me, and for a second I thought I’d lose my balance. Somehow, I managed to keep upright. My entire body was shaking, partly from the cold, partly from sheer terror.
I waded out into the street, and the current nearly pulled my feet out from under me. At one point, a piece of wood or some kind of debris slammed into my shin. It hurt like crazy, but I just grit my teeth and kept moving. The only thing on my mind was getting my dogs to safety. If I had to choose one word to describe that feeling, it would be desperation. A desperate need to protect them.
Neighbors were yelling, water was swirling, and the sky was this weird, ominous grayish-brown color. It felt like something out of a disaster movie, except it was real. I spotted a group of people huddled near a larger truck that was still partially on higher ground. They were waving me over, shouting something I couldn’t quite make out. I just trudged forward, one step at a time, water sloshing up to my waist.
By the time I reached them, my arms were on fire. The people there helped me lift Luna and Rusty up onto the truck’s bed, which was thankfully still dry inside. I can’t even describe the relief I felt when I set them down. They were both shaking uncontrollably, and I was so worried they might have swallowed some of the dirty water.
We tried to figure out what to do next. The truck owner said they were going to try to drive out to a safer area, but they weren’t sure if the engine would hold up once they hit deeper water. There was no real plan. It was basically everyone winging it, hoping we could get to higher ground.
We decided to go for it. We all piled in—me, my dogs, and a few neighbors who had joined us. The engine roared as the driver attempted to push through the rising water. It felt like we were on a boat rather than a truck. Water sloshed around the tires, and the truck would sometimes slide sideways, making me gasp and hold onto Luna and Rusty even tighter.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of creeping forward, we made it to a spot where the water was more shallow. The relief in the air was palpable. Some people started crying, others just stared into the distance, stunned. I kept petting my dogs, checking their ears, making sure they were breathing okay, trying to reassure them as much as I was reassuring myself.
But we weren’t in the clear yet. Our entire town was basically underwater, and the storm wasn’t letting up. We heard from someone else that the local shelter was already overflowing with people who had lost their homes. Another wave of panic hit me: Where would we go? Where could we keep the dogs safe?
We decided to push on toward the edge of town, where there’s a small community center that sometimes doubles as an emergency shelter. The roads were partially flooded, but the truck was high enough off the ground to manage. When we arrived, we saw a line of people waiting outside, all looking soaked, scared, and exhausted.
We managed to get inside after a volunteer recognized me. They saw I had dogs and said something like, “I’m not sure if we can keep animals in here.” My heart sank. I felt that same desperation clawing at me again. I just shook my head and said, “I’m not leaving them. I’ll sleep outside if I have to.” A couple of other people spoke up, insisting that pets should be allowed in because they’re family too. Thankfully, the volunteer nodded, though they looked stressed and unsure.
Inside, it was chaos. Families were huddled together, some with children crying, others with their own pets. The floors were slick with rainwater, and the air smelled like wet clothes and fear. I found a corner for me, Luna, and Rusty. We curled up on some blankets that a kind older woman gave us, and for the first time in what felt like days (even though it was still the same day), I took a moment to breathe.
Time passed in a blur. People came in with stories about cars floating away, houses collapsing, and roads being washed out entirely. The power was out, and the emergency lights flickered ominously. I kept stroking Luna and Rusty, whispering to them that it would be okay, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I believed it myself. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see rushing water and the terrifying moment when I nearly lost my footing in the street.
At one point, a rescue worker showed up and started taking down names, addresses, and the condition of each family. He asked if I was injured, and I honestly didn’t know how to respond. My shin was throbbing from where I’d been hit by debris, but compared to what others were going through, it felt minor. I just told him I was fine. All I cared about was that Luna and Rusty were safe and not separated from me.
Throughout the night, the storm raged on, rattling the doors and windows. I think I slept maybe an hour, if that. Every time I drifted off, I’d jolt awake thinking I heard someone yelling or that the water was coming in again. Luna would lick my face, and Rusty would nuzzle his head under my arm. I can’t even begin to explain how grateful I was (and still am) for those dogs. Their presence gave me a sense of calm I couldn’t find anywhere else.
By morning, the water had started to recede a little. The rescue workers were talking about forming teams to go back out and check on houses. I overheard someone say that many roads were still impassable, and that the worst might not be over because more rain was in the forecast.
And here I am now, sitting in a corner of the community center, phone battery at about 12%, writing all this down in the hope that it helps me process. Luna is curled up at my feet, and Rusty is dozing against my leg. I’m beyond exhausted, but there’s a strange mix of relief and dread swirling inside me.
I’m relieved because I have my dogs with me, safe, at least for the moment. I’m grateful that I refused to leave them behind, no matter how risky it was. But I’m also terrified. I don’t know what I’ll find when I go back to my house. I don’t even know if it’s still standing or if my belongings are completely destroyed. Part of me doesn’t want to know. I just want to stay in this bubble of relief a little longer.
But the world keeps moving, right? I can’t just hide forever. Soon, I’ll have to go back out there, see the damage, and figure out how to rebuild. The community center is already overflowing, and more people keep arriving. We’re running out of supplies, and the volunteers are doing their best, but it’s chaos.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a strange sense of unity in all this. People who barely knew each other are sharing blankets, offering food, consoling one another. We’ve all lost something, but we’re holding onto each other.
That’s about where my story stands for now. I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know if the rain will stop or if the roads will clear. But I do know one thing:
I refused to leave my dogs behind, and that choice—despite how terrifying it was—feels like the only thing I’m sure of. If I had left them, I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself. They’ve been there for me through so many tough times, and this was my turn to be there for them.
So yeah, that’s my story. We’re safe for the moment, all three of us together, and I guess that’s the best I can ask for right now.
I’m not sure what comes next. Maybe we’ll find a way to fix up my house, or maybe it’s gone for good. Maybe we’ll end up relocating to another town. Everything is so uncertain, and it’s weird to not have a plan. But at least I’m not alone. I’ve got Luna and Rusty, and I’m never letting them go.
Anyway, thanks for reading this far if you have. I just needed to share it somewhere. My dogs are okay, I’m okay, and even though I’m surrounded by chaos, I feel a strange kind of hope. Because in that moment, when everything was on the line, I made the right choice for me and for them. That has to count for something, right?
I’ll keep you all updated if anything changes. But for now, I’m just grateful we’re alive, together, and ready to face whatever happens next.
Stay safe out there, everyone.