{"id":19833,"date":"2026-03-11T08:21:18","date_gmt":"2026-03-11T08:21:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/uncategorized\/how-a-dog-and-a-hopeless-addict-helped-each-other-find-new-purpose\/"},"modified":"2026-04-10T06:08:41","modified_gmt":"2026-04-10T06:08:41","slug":"how-a-dog-and-a-hopeless-addict-helped-each-other-find-new-purpose","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gpbookstore.org\/articles\/positive-living\/friends-and-family\/pets\/dogs\/how-a-dog-and-a-hopeless-addict-helped-each-other-find-new-purpose\/","title":{"rendered":"How a Dog and a Hopeless Addict Helped Each Other Find New Purpose"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cI\u2019m assigning Pippy to you,\u201d Mr. Shippy, one of the guards, said. Oh no<\/em>, I thought. Pippy hadn\u2019t been here long, but she already had a reputation.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d heard her snarls and barks echoing through the halls of the dog dorms of Indiana\u2019s Madison Correctional Facility. I\u2019d seen her from a distance, a hound mix with a droopy expression and a quick temper. She\u2019d instigated every dog fight that had broken out since she\u2019d arrived six months earlier. Several other trainers in the dorm\u2014my fellow inmates\u2014had attempted to work with her. They hadn\u2019t made any progress.<\/p>\n

Pippy was the worst dog in the prison\u2019s program.<\/p>\n

\u201cKeelie, I\u2019ve seen what you\u2019ve done with your past dogs,\u201d said Mr. Shippy. \u201cYou\u2019ve got this.\u201d <\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t so sure. Some of Pippy\u2019s trainers hadn\u2019t lasted more than a few days.<\/p>\n

Mr. Shippy brought her to my cell and officially handed her over. I was surprised. Pippy wasn\u2019t the angry, intimidating dog I\u2019d been warned about. She was smaller and older than I\u2019d expected. About 10 years old. The tumors on her body, which the vet said were benign, looked painful.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, girl,\u201d I said, in a positive, friendly tone.<\/p>\n

\"\"Her tail gave a hesitant wag, but she stood stiffly. Pippy wasn\u2019t mean, I realized. She was just afraid.<\/p>\n

I knew the feeling.<\/p>\n

No one ever plans<\/em> on ending up in prison. I certainly didn\u2019t when I started abusing prescription anti-anxiety meds at 15. I was struggling with severe anxiety and depression<\/a>. So many things scared me and stressed me out\u2014school, social situations, my parents\u2019 divorce. The pills numbed my feelings.<\/p>\n

As I got older, I traded pills for heroin, then meth. I knew my mom was worried to death, but that didn\u2019t stop me. By the time I was 22, my life revolved around my addiction. Work was just a way to support my habit. I hung out with other drug users. My party-hard lifestyle came to an abrupt end when the police raided my place and found my stash. I was sentenced to three years for drug possession.<\/p>\n

Prison was a shock. Despite my years of drug abuse, I\u2019d never been in trouble with the law before. But here I was in an orange jumpsuit, confined to an eight-by-eight cell. Alone and scared. I didn\u2019t have drugs as a buffer anymore because I\u2019d been forced to detox.<\/p>\n

Madison Correctional Facility is minimum security. You can\u2019t just sit in your cell. You have to work. Some inmates pick up trash along the side of the road. Others help keep the prison running, working in the kitchens or the laundry room.<\/p>\n

I was assigned to the cleaning staff. My first day, I spent eight hours scrubbing the stairs with a toothbrush. That night I lay in my cot, aching and exhausted. I\u2019d never given the future much thought\u2014when you\u2019re an addict, all you care about is your next high\u2014but I knew I couldn\u2019t do this every day. Not for three years.<\/p>\n

After a few weeks, I was allowed to choose a new assignment. The only one that interested me was the ADOPT program\u2014A Dog On Prison Turf. It paired inmates with sick, aggressive or shy shelter dogs that no one wanted. Here in the prison dorms, they were trained and socialized until they could be adopted out to their forever homes.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d loved dogs since I was a little girl, but I\u2019d never had one of my own. Unlike other jobs, there was no time off \u2014a dog was with its trainer 24\/7. Could I handle this? Could I take care of a dog when I was no good at taking care of myself? My anxieties faded when I was assigned my first dog, Lady. I connected with her, the kind of connection I didn\u2019t have with anyone else, human or animal.<\/p>\n

We trainers spent every moment with our dogs\u2014taking them for walks around the yard, playing, teaching them basic commands. They slept in crates in our cells. It was hard not to get attached. On adoption days, the dogs were transported from the prison to events outside. We couldn\u2019t go with them, so we had no way of knowing which dog had been adopted until they didn\u2019t return. It was nerve-wracking.<\/p>\n

One day Lady didn\u2019t come back. I called my mother in tears. \u201cI\u2019m quitting the program,\u201d I said. \u201cI can\u2019t work with another dog, just to give them up. I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re doing good there, Keelie,\u201d Mom said. \u201cThe dogs need you. And maybe the best way to help them is to learn to let them go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Was Mom right? Was I capable of doing something besides getting high? I didn\u2019t really care about me, but if the dogs needed me, I had to be my best self to take care of them. I stuck with the program and trained two more dogs that got adopted.<\/p>\n

Then I was assigned to Pippy, the program\u2019s problem dog. She was reactive toward dogs. Standoffish with people. The shelter didn\u2019t have much information on her, but I knew she must have suffered some kind of trauma to act this way. Evenings she\u2019d curl up in her crate and I\u2019d read up on dog behavior, trying to understand her better.<\/p>\n

A few weeks into our partnership, it was the Fourth of July<\/a>. Fireworks lit up the sky, close enough that we could see them from the prison yard. But Pippy was not having it. She cowered in her crate, terrified by the noise.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome here, darlin\u2019, sit with me,\u201d I said. But Pippy wouldn\u2019t leave the safety of her crate. I sat right at the door, slowly reaching my hand inside and resting it at the base of her neck. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, darlin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

Scared as Pippy was, she didn\u2019t lash out. I gave her neck a gentle stroke. Then another. She let me pet her. By the time the fireworks ended, she was leaning into my touch. \u201cThat\u2019s it, darlin\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n

Darlin\u2019\u2026Darlin\u2019\u2026Darla!<\/em> The name fit her better. I had it changed in her records the next day.<\/p>\n

From then on, Darla and I were inseparable. I saw a lot of myself in her. Driven to unhealthy behavior by fear. Low self-esteem. Someone people didn\u2019t think well of or expect much from.<\/p>\n

Over the next few months, Darla underwent several surgeries, one to get her spayed and a few to remove her tumors. The head of the program was too scared of Darla to take her to the vet alone so I accompanied them. It was embarrassing to be seen in public in my orange jumpsuit, my hands cuffed in front of me, but I did it for Darla.<\/p>\n

On one of these outings something caught my eye. The vet\u2019s office was in the middle of nowhere, nothing around but open sky and Indiana cornfields. Across the street, however, was a store: Darla\u2019s Second Chance Furniture.<\/p>\n

I believed Darla deserved a second chance. Here was confirmation from something greater than me, some kind of higher power in the universe<\/a>. And if Darla deserved a second chance, maybe I did too.<\/p>\n

Adoption days came and went. Some dogs found homes. Every time, I\u2019d say goodbye to Darla. But she always came back. No one wanted her.<\/p>\n

I was scheduled to be released in a few months. There was talk about what to do with Darla once I was gone. None of the other trainers felt comfortable taking her on. She\u2019d have to be put down.<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t let that happen. I made a dollar a day as a dog trainer and I needed $60 to adopt Darla. I didn\u2019t visit the commissary. I didn\u2019t buy a thing. I saved every penny.<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"On Christmas Eve 2014, Darla and I walked out of prison. As we exited the gates, I looked back at our prints in the snow. We\u2019d come a long way together. \u201cCome on, girl!\u201d I shouted. \u201cLet\u2019s go!\u201d<\/p>\n

Life after prison was hard. Broke and on parole, I moved back in with my mom. Without the structure of prison, I worried I would go back to using drugs.<\/p>\n

Except Darla needed me. She trusted me. I could repay that trust only if I stayed clean. I enrolled in a voluntary outpatient rehab program. I worked at an animal rescue, which kept me focused on what I loved doing. I did an internship with a professional dog trainer. That gave me the experience and confidence to start my own dog training business\u2014Click. Treat. Repeat. Canine Coaching. Soon business was booming. I married a great guy I met in rehab, someone as committed to sobriety as I was, and we bought a house.<\/p>\n

Darla and I had eight wonderful years together before she passed away at 18. It might seem like I saved Darla. Really, I think she saved me<\/a>. She taught me so much about trust. Perseverance. Love. And the power of a second chance.<\/p>\n

For daily animal devotions, subscribe to\u00a0<\/em>All God’s Creatures<\/strong><\/a>\u00a0magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cI\u2019m assigning Pippy to you,\u201d Mr. Shippy, one of the guards, said. Oh no, I thought. Pippy hadn\u2019t been here long, but she already had a reputation. I\u2019d heard her snarls and barks echoing through the halls of the dog dorms of Indiana\u2019s Madison Correctional Facility. 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