I Made an Emergency Plan for My Chihuahua, Calmly

I want to walk you through the four minutes between 2:14 a.m. and 2:18 a.m. on a Wednesday in November 2024, in which the fire alarm in my apartment building went off and I, in those four minutes, learned approximately seven things about my level of preparation that I had previously assumed were settled. They were not, on examination, settled. I am writing this column with the full benefit of having stood in the lobby in my pajamas at 2:19 a.m. with my chihuahua Luna in one hand and a series of items in the other hand that I now recognize were not, in any combination, the right items to have grabbed.

The fire alarm was a false alarm. There was no actual fire. The lobby experience was, on the available accounting, useful. Below is the resulting one-page emergency plan, which now lives in a small folder by the front door, alongside the go-bag I assembled in a separate column.

What I actually grabbed, on the available evidence

In the four minutes between alarm and evacuation, I grabbed, in order:

1. Luna.
2. My phone, which was at four percent battery.
3. My wallet, which was on the kitchen counter and required me to walk back into the apartment.
4. A pair of socks, on the way back out, because I had forgotten that I was barefoot.
5. Luna's leash, which I had grabbed and then dropped while putting on the socks, requiring a second pickup.
6. A jacket, in the hallway as I left.
7. The apartment keys, also in the hallway, also required a brief return.

In the lobby, on a careful inventory of what I had not grabbed:

• Luna's harness, which would have made the walk to the lobby calmer.
• Her ID tag was on her collar but not her microchip number, which would have been useful if she had bolted.
• Her vaccination records, in the event that the building was uninhabitable for several days.
• Any food or water for her, in the same event.
• The car keys, since the apartment building's parking lot was the staging area and the car was a useful temporary shelter.
• My phone charger.
• A pair of shoes that were not the slip-on flats I had grabbed in the dark.

The four minutes had been, on the household's accounting, ad hoc. The lobby had been the moment at which the ad hoc inventory became visible.

The one-page plan, plainly

The plan I wrote up the following weekend, after the household had recovered from the 2 a.m. evacuation, is one printed page in a plastic sleeve in a small folder by the front door. The contents:

Section 1: Immediate evacuation grab list. A numbered list of the five things to grab in under sixty seconds. In my household: phone, wallet, harness-and-leash combination (already attached together on a hook), keys (already on a hook), shoes (a designated pair by the door).

Section 2: The go-bag location. A reminder of where the go-bag is and what it contains. A separate piece on assembling the go-bag covers the contents.

Section 3: Contact information. Veterinarian phone number, emergency vet phone number, building manager phone number, two designated emergency contacts who could provide overnight shelter for Luna and me on short notice.

Section 4: Identification information. Luna's microchip number, vaccination certificate location, the photograph of the two of us together (printed and laminated, in the folder).

Section 5: Designated meeting points. The lobby; the parking lot of the supermarket two blocks away; the home of the nearest emergency contact. In a longer evacuation, the household has a known place to be.

The pre-positioning, briefly

The plan only works if the items it references are where it says they are. The pre-positioning work I did, the weekend after the alarm:

• Hooks by the front door for the harness, the leash, the keys, and a designated jacket.
• A pair of shoes stays by the door, designated for emergency use, in addition to the regular shoe rotation.
• The go-bag on the floor under the hooks, replenished quarterly.
• The plan folder on a shelf above the hooks, in a clear plastic sleeve.
• Phone charger in the go-bag, not in the bedroom outlet where I had to retrieve it from at 2:14 a.m.

The total project, from "let me make a plan" to "the plan and pre-positioning are done," took about ninety minutes on a Saturday afternoon. The capacity to evacuate calmly, the next time the alarm goes off, is the result.

The sincere paragraph, planted on schedule

I will plant the sincere paragraph here, because the column requires one and because the 2 a.m. lobby experience earned it. The thing about evacuating in a small apartment building with a four-pound dog is that the household has either prepared for the moment in advance or has not, and the difference between the two is approximately the four minutes between the alarm and the lobby. There is no third version. The dog cannot, in any sense, prepare for herself. The household either has the harness on a hook by the door or has the harness somewhere in the apartment; the household either has the keys on the hook or has the keys somewhere on a counter; the household either has the go-bag by the door or does not have a go-bag at all. A separate piece on chihuahua anxiety covers the related point that owner calm during a stress event is one of the most useful variables for the dog.

The fire alarm was, on the available evidence, a gift. It was a false alarm; nobody was hurt; and the household had a clear visible audit of its preparation level at minimal cost. I am writing this column to encourage other chihuahua owners to do the same audit without waiting for the alarm.

The quarterly check, briefly

The plan needs maintenance. My calendar reminder, set for the first Saturday of every January, April, July, and October, prompts a brief check:

• The harness, leash, and keys are on their hooks.
• The go-bag's food has not expired and the water bottle has been rotated.
• The vaccination certificate is current.
• The phone numbers in the plan are still correct.
• The emergency contacts have not moved or changed numbers.

The check takes about ten minutes. The cost is small; the value at the next 2 a.m. alarm is, on every honest assessment, substantial. The AVMA's disaster preparedness page covers the broader recommendations; the one-page plan is the household-specific version.

The end of the column, briefly

Luna is, as I write this, on her bed. The harness is on its hook by the door. The keys are on the adjacent hook. The plan is in its folder. The go-bag is on the floor below. The system, in the lobby of an apartment building on a cold November night at 2:19 a.m., would now run in approximately ninety seconds rather than four minutes. The dog, on the available evidence, has noticed nothing. The household, on the same evidence, has noticed everything.