The rain came fast. A sprinkle to start, then a storm, then a downpour that turned yards into ponds and sidewalks into rivers. By midnight, the little yellow house on Maple Paw Lane was half-submerged — and my humans were gone.

Not gone forever. I knew that. I’d seen them leave in a rescue boat, shouting my name, promising they’d come back for me.

But I couldn’t wait.

I’m Scout. I don’t sit. I don’t stay. I surf.

When the water lifted my doghouse off the ground, I didn’t panic. I just stood tall, let the current carry us, and barked a little to warm up. My home — once a cozy wooden box with a chewed-up welcome mat — had become a seaworthy vessel. With a soggy tennis ball for ballast and a garden gnome as figurehead, I set sail into the great unknown.

Down the driveway. Past the mailbox. Around the corner of the Johnsons’ koi pond, now large enough to float their minivan.

I was no ordinary pup on a raft. I was Flood Surfing Dog — ears flapping in the breeze, paws spread wide for balance, eyes scanning the horizon.

And that’s when I saw them.

First: a Pomeranian in a laundry basket, spinning slowly in circles like a confused pastry. I barked once, leapt into the water, nudged her aboard my doghouse, and gave her a reassuring lick. She shook like a cotton ball with stage fright.

Then, I saw a Basset Hound clinging to a drifting porch swing. He grunted. I growled. We heaved. He flopped onboard with a grateful woof and a wet sigh.

Each block brought more canine castaways — a Chihuahua in a cooler, a retriever on a floating yoga mat, even a scruffy terrier clinging to a pool noodle with surprising upper-body strength.

I welcomed them all.

By the time we reached the flooded town square, my doghouse was no longer just a surfboard — it was a rescue ark, wobbling slightly, but determined. We sailed past lampposts and street signs, lawn flamingos and overturned bicycles. We paddled with paws, tails, and broken paddles.

And then, there — on the far side of the park, standing on a rescue truck platform — my humans.

“MOM!” I barked, which came out more like “ARF!” but she knew.

She screamed. My human dad dove waist-deep into the water. He guided our soggy ship to safety, lifting every dog off one by one, his eyes never leaving mine.

Scout had come home.

But not alone.

Thanks to one little dog who dared to surf a storm, every pup made it back to someone who loved them.

And later, when the sun finally returned and the water sank back into the ground, my humans built me a new doghouse — waterproof, reinforced, and lined with peanut butter biscuits.

Just in case I ever need to ride again.

Because when the flood rises, and the world feels lost, you can always count on a dog to lead the way home.