Yes, I’m late. This was supposed to go out already. But right now, I’m writing this from bed, still wearing the cut-off leggings and one-sleeve white tank I drove across the country in. I feel comfy, sexy, and absolutely a little smelly after 12 hours behind the wheel. It’s fine. I’m fine. Sort of.
This month has been a blur of Google Maps reroutes, gas station coffee that tastes like regret, and the kind of middle-of-nowhere truck stops where being a hot girl feels like walking into a saloon in a Western, every man turns, none of them blink, all of them dumbly drool. I think this was my fourth or fifth cross-country drive; I’ve lost count at this point.
Someone, please buy me a jet.
Normally, I bring my dogs, Shadow and Dino, with me. If they’re not coming, I’ll drive them out to Tennessee, leave them with my parents, and fly out from there. But this time, I thought I was being efficient.
A longtime friend needed a place to crash while his house was under construction. Perfect timing. I’d be gone, he could stay in the guest room, take care of the dogs, and keep the house locked up. Win-win.
Until it wasn’t.
I was halfway to Florida when my phone started blowing up. My landlord was calling. Every single neighbor had contacted her because my dogs were howling in the backyard, and had been outside alone since 11 a.m. It was now 11 p.m. No water. No shade. A small backyard. Shadow can jump the fence. Dino can dig underneath it. Anyone could’ve taken them. They could’ve escaped. Someone could’ve called the cops.
And then I find out the house was left unlocked.
Someone could’ve walked right in.
I was driving when I found out, hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, and suddenly my phone lit up a few too many times for comfort. I let out a scream that didn’t sound human, more like a throaty, survival noise ripped from somewhere deep in my body. The kind of scream that makes you swerve just slightly, grip the wheel like an ex that wronged you, and make every man at the gas station look up like they just heard a wild animal crash through the door.
I was panicking. Fully spiraling. My heart was pounding. My stomach was in knots that wouldn’t let go. The only thing I could think of: Shadow will have a seizure and die. Dino will escape or get stolen. These aren’t “just dogs.” They’re my children. I’ve driven across states for them. I’ve missed events for them. I’ve structured my career around their well-being. And now this?
The worst part? I shouldn’t have even needed to say it. Don’t leave the dogs outside all day in the heat, unsupervised, without water; that’s not a “just in case” reminder. That’s basic human logic. I did specify that Dino must be kenneled when no one’s home, or he’ll destroy anything that smells like me. That Shadow takes medication twice a day. That they both have specific needs. Routines. Sensitivities.
Trauma.
And he just… left them.
Everyone in our friend group is disappointed in him. I’m disappointed in him. I wish I had stayed calm. I wish my tone had been softer, cooler, more graceful. But the truth is: I care. And I cry easily. And I’m working on it. Okay?
What pulled me back from the edge was my best friend. He dropped everything, drove over, made sure the dogs were okay, and slept in the guest room like it was his full-time job. And on the one day he couldn’t be there, two other friends stepped in. Made sure they were safe, hydrated, and that Shadow had his meds. My people showed up for me. For them. And I’m so incredibly thankful.
Why was I even driving to Florida? A friend’s parents had just had an estate sale and generously gifted me some stunning art and a few pieces of furniture. I drove the Tesla down to meet a potential buyer, and thankfully, the sale went through. So I handed off the Tesla and rented a 2024 RAM truck to bring everything back up the East Coast.
And I don’t care what anyone says, the sound of an engine tingles my heart. I love a Tesla. But there is nothing, nothing, like the rhythm of a truck engine shaking itself alive beneath you. I needed that feeling. That grounding. That noise. I needed something real to carry me home, with priceless artwork in the backseat and the weight of the week fading slowly behind me in the rearview mirror.
I still don’t feel fully settled. Like a part of me is still out there, somewhere on I-95, mid-scream, mid-panic, mid-fury. But when you’re the one who always holds it together, there’s never really a clean end to a crisis. You just go home. Unpack the car. Feed the dogs. And write it all down like the story isn’t still living in your body.
So now I’m back. I’m in bed. I’m tired. I’m okay. And yes, I’m still a little mad. But mostly, I’m thankful my dogs are safe. That I have friends who show up. That I get to write this down and send it out to people who care enough to read it.
More next week.
Until then, hug your dogs. Lock your doors. And maybe don’t trust everyone who says, “Don’t worry, I got it,” even if they’re your friend.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
