Let’s get one thing out of the way: yes, that’s me in the mugshot.
And no, I didn’t miss last week’s newsletter because I was journaling from jail. I wasn’t scribbling haikus on the walls of a Washington County holding cell or bartering eyeliner for Wi-Fi access. Though honestly? That would’ve made for a hell of a story.
But I was arrested, well, not really.
Technically, emotionally, spiritually, cosmically, sure.
One minute I’m driving south on I-81 with both dogs in the backseat, singing to a playlist that could’ve resurrected Amy Winehouse herself, and the next it’s lights in the rearview and an officer asking, “Do you know how fast you were going?” I did. And I didn’t. Because isn’t that how these things go?
It was very much a “shit, I’m speeding… shit, that’s a cop… shit, he’s behind me” moment, followed by “Well, Sheridan, I hope you enjoyed freedom.”
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls, no, I wasn’t thrown in a cell or handcuffed in front of my dogs like some suburban outlaw. But in that moment, heart racing, hands shaking, Shadow looking up at me with those eyes, asking, “Is everything okay?”—it felt like the kind of day that deserved a mugshot. So I made one. Obviously. Because I’m definitely not ✨dramatic✨ in any way, shape, or form???
The truth is, I was barely going over the speed limit. And honestly, it was a slow day on the roads, so I get it: my long streak of good luck had to tap the brakes once in a decade.
I was driving from the East Coast to southern Tennessee. While the morning roads were eerily empty (just me, the trees, and the existential dread), the evening was absolute chaos, bumper-to-bumper traffic snaking along the edge of a mountain, semis tipped over like dominoes, every car crawling as if we were in line for the apocalypse. I didn’t get to my destination until 10 pm, five hours later than planned. So yes, I missed the newsletter.
To everyone who asked if I was okay because your favorite drama series, What Sheridan Said, didn’t air on schedule, thank you. Consider this my apology letter, complete with a fake mugshot and a very real story I finally decided to share.
If you haven’t realized it yet, I’m a massive fan of dogs. But I want to tell you about my mother’s favorite “Grandpup,” Shadow, and why I would drive 500 miles in the middle of the week just to hand-deliver him to my parents for safety.
Because when your dog has epilepsy, when he’s had four seizures in two hours, when you cradle him into a vet’s arms while mascara streams down your jawline, suddenly, every mile feels like a prayer.
It was a little over a year ago, maybe around 3 AM, when I woke to Shadow kicking me in the back. At first, I thought he was dreaming; he’s an active dreamer who howls in his sleep (I know, fun). But as the movement became more aggressive, I realized he was seizing, full-body, uncontrollable. It was terrifying.
He had four more seizures before I could even make it to the ER. I woke my mother, and with one eye barely open and my arms wrapped around Shadow, we drove straight there. When I arrived, I stood in the center of the waiting room and said, “He’s had four seizures in two hours.” Then everything blurred, vets rushing toward us, arms reaching for him, clipboards thrown aside. I will never forget the way they looked at me: like I had just brought in a baby who was close to death. Because I did.
Shadow was quickly diagnosed with extreme epilepsy and began taking heavy medication twice a day, “he’s stoned 24/7,” as the doctor put it, so as his guardian, I take my role very seriously. I don’t know how long he will be with me. The medication is so strong that I have to get his organs and all of his insides checked out once every six months. I’m hopeful he will live a long life, even if it’s been shortened by his medical diagnosis.
Shadow isn’t just a dog. He’s part of my “before and after.”
I got him when my first dog, Fendi (actually named Fendi), was roughly five years old. He was the best dog you could ever ask for. Fendi was a dachshund/chihuahua/terrier mix who looked like a Duck Dynasty extra, and of course, Shadow’s best friend. Then one day in my Houston backyard, the cruel circle of life appeared, and an owl swooped down and killed Fendi.
Just like that, gone.
Shadow saw it all happen. He ran inside through the magnetic screen door, crying in a way I’d never heard before, and hid under my bed. I sprinted outside and found Fendi’s body, covered in blood, breathless.
Instinctively, I climbed the nearest massive tree, convinced whatever did this was still up there, and that I would kill it and have it for dinner. Picture a clumsy panda flailing and falling over and over, refusing to quit.
Eventually, I wrapped Fendi in a blanket and drove to the emergency vet. They shortly confirmed that an owl’s claw had punctured his lung, ending his life in an instant, assuring me it was fast and painless.
If you didn’t know, owls kill and leave their prey, then return later to eat.
I don’t care what anyone says: a dog can grieve, a dog can suffer from extreme depression. And Shadow didn’t just grieve Fendi’s murder; he spiraled into a deep depression.
He stopped eating entirely, and for over four months, he wouldn’t touch a toy. When I finally took him to the dog park, I’m not even kidding, he went up to every single dog, did his little “sit dance” (raises a leg, sits, and smiles), and they all turned away and walked off. After trying every dog, there were dozens, he sat by the exit gate and let out a howl/cry. It wasn’t until I brought home Dinosaur, Dino for short, who needed a home and was free, that Shadow instantly cheered back up. He just needed a friend.
That’s why I don’t trust anyone else with him besides my parents. That’s why I packed him and Dino (a Golden Retriever/Chihuahua mix, if you can believe that contradiction) into the car, kissed the East Coast goodbye, and drove all the way to Tennessee to drop them off, before flying over an ocean for my next adventure. Didn’t I say I’m “definitely not ✨dramatic✨?”
So no, I wasn’t arrested last week. But I did hit pause on everything. I drove, I wrote poetry, and wrote some other things I’ll soon spill details about. And I didn’t even get a speeding ticket; Dino’s cuteness distracted the officer, who turned out to be extremely nice. It was my first time getting pulled over in almost ten years. So, yeah, I dropped off my best friends and whispered, “Good luck and safe driving only,” to myself before driving straight back home to pack. Then I made a mugshot, just to be dramatic.
But today? I’m not driving across the country, flying over an ocean, or performing at a poetry slam. I’m here, talking with you all, whom I’ve loved sharing my life with these past several months.
And no, officer. I won’t do it again. Scouts honor.
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
