I swim into the apartment and locate it frantically paddling around in the hall, looks like some sort of terrier mix, about thirty pounds or so, white and tan. I’ve seen it around before and think a young couple owns it. It heads toward me and I grab it and pray it doesn’t bite the fuck out of me.
It doesn’t. It desperately clings to me and licks my face.
Not sure how I’ll get us back up onto the roof, but we can’t stay down here. I swim out of the apartment through the window, the dog still clinging to me.
I want to kill its fucking owners. What thefuckis wrong with someone that they’d leave their dog behind to die?
Then I have an idea.
I stand on top of one of the AC units, and that allows me enough extra height to boost the dog by its butt so it can gain purchase on the roof with its paws and scramble up to safety.
Yay. One problem solved.
I have barely enough energy to get myself back up the tree and onto the roof. The dog follows my progress, waiting for me, barking at me and wagging its tail as I climb the tree and once again negotiate the damn limb over the roof. When I finally make it, the dog is all over me—no shit, I’d be happy to see me, too, if I just saved me from drowning—and licking my face.
It’s a girl, and a tag on her collar says her name is Petula. She shakes the water off her fur and wiggles against me, happy. Joyous, even.
I, however, am in bad shape. I’m fucking shivering even worse than before. I return to my stuff, put my raincoat on, and the backpack, and hug the dog to me. At least she’s a little bit of warmth.
All through the morning, the rain intermittently pelts us. Every time it slacks off, I stand up and keep watch for rescuers. A couple of times, helicopters fly overhead, but I don’t know if they see us or not. I watch them plucking people off roofs in the distance, so I know the situation is bad, and they’re probably overwhelmed with distress calls.
It’s almost eleven when I finally spot a boat nearby. Both Petula and I are jumping up and down, the dog doing it more I think because she thinks it’s a game. She keeps looking up at me like she’s asking me if she’s doing it right as she barks while I wave my arms and scream for help.
It’s a Wildlife Resources boat, manned by a uniformed officer. There are several other survivors in it already, and I’m nearly in tears when they head my way.
“Are you all right, sir?” he asks.
“I will be now,” I tell him.
“Any injuries?”
“Just wet and freezing, and ready to get to dry land.
First he hands me up an orange life vest. After I put that on, he says, “Hand me your dog.”
“She’s not mine. I rescued her from one of the apartments. They left her behind. I kicked a window in to save her.”
He looks as enraged as I felt before I froze my ass off on this roof. “We should file a report about that once we get you to land.”
“Oh, believe me, I plan to. For now, she can stay with me.”
The other survivors help the officer get her into the boat before I ease myself down and off the roof.
This is definitely worse than the 2010 flood—by a lot.
The wildlife officer transports us to a staging area on Gallatin Avenue, depositing us in what is usually the middle of a street. Once we hand over our life vests, he immediately takes off again in search of other survivors.
We’re met by Red Cross volunteers who hand out emergency mylar blankets. I take one for me and one for the dog, wrapping us both in them. They’re waiting for a vehicle to transport us to an emergency shelter.
I wonder if I’m going to have to be a dick, pull rank, and get law enforcement involved to keep Petula with me, but fortunately they let me take her on the city bus that arrives to transport us.
My fellow refugees look shell-shocked. I know I’m better off than probably most of them, because I have renter’s insurance and the means with which to put my life back together again.
Not like I haven’t been a refugee before.
I let Petula sit in my lap and she happily pants as she stares out the window. To her, this is an adventure.
To my fellow refugees, this is earth-shattering, life-altering.
