Two years ago, an act of kindness renewed Holly Keller’s faith in humanity and put her on the path to recovery.  

She had turned to drugs to help survive life on the streets and blot out the past. Her dog, Rukus, was her one sliver of hope in the haze.

That frozen February day, Keller wrapped herself over her canine companion to keep her warm. She was settled by her bicycle and bike cart on a curb at Interstate 1604 and Lookout Road when a truck rolled into the parking lot. 

A woman trudged from the truck and asked if Keller knew of a motel that allowed dogs in the rooms. Keller said she didn’t know of any in the area. 

“No, you don’t understand,” the woman said. “We want to rent a room for you and your dog.”

Keller was stunned. It was rare for people who passed her homeless camp on the Northeast Side to acknowledge Keller, let alone offer to help.

The couple put her belongings in the truck bed and drove her and Rukus to find shelter from the cold. Keller was amazed the pair let her sit in the back seat with their two young boys. 

Good to their word, her benefactors paid for a three-day stay at a local motel. At check-out time, freezing temperatures and icy roads awaited her. Then, the front desk clerk called — the couple had paid for another night’s stay. They repeated that kindness for a week.

Keller said she’s forever indebted to the couple. She still doesn’t know their names — she called them “angels.”

“They saved my life,” Keller, 44, said. “They didn’t look at somebody who was homeless like trash. I made it to the other side because they were willing to help me. I would love to let them know it wasn’t in vain and they did something good.”

Last week, Keller celebrated 18 months of sobriety. The achievement represents freedom, independence and redemption. 

“It’s when God saved me from hell,” Keller said.

Before her downward spiral, Keller grew up in a middle-class family in greater Seattle. She was in high school when she started drinking and dabbling with drugs. 

By her 30s, she was addicted to opiates. During Keller’s 10-year struggle, there were good days when she managed a swimming school where she taught swimming classes. But that period ended with a significant loss — her mother died by suicide the day before her birthday.

The grief was too much. Keller moved from Washington to Idaho, where she lived with her father. Her addiction increased. Her escape from the dark place ended on the streets of San Antonio, where she first saw Rukus. The six-week-old pup followed her every step. 

Ruckus growled when a stranger would come near, but then the brown and black pit bull/Rottweiler mix disappeared for three months. When Keller saw the dog again, she became one of the many homeless pet owners who tend to their animals before themselves.

“My love,” she whispered when she saw the pup.

Keller made a pact she would always care for Rukus. She swaddled her in blankets during chilly nights and fed her ice on blistering hot days.

“I know her life was hard because my life was hard,” Keller said.

In June 2021, Keller was arrested for drug possession and spent time in the Guadalupe County Jail. An acquaintance cared for her dog. After Keller’s release, she experienced the most devastating night of her life. 

She was attacked on the Northeast side. It was the last time she saw Rukus alive. Keller said Rukus protected her and allowed her to escape. 

The next day, Keller saw the unthinkable — her pet’s dead body.

“My dog Rukus gave up her life to save mine,” Keller said. “There’s a connection between a homeless person and their animal that’s beyond anything I’ve experienced in my life. How many people can say they’ve been loved by another creature as much as that?”

Keller fled the city — barefoot. 

At midnight, she struck out along the shoulder, ditches and neighborhoods along I-35 North. Her swollen feet bled from walking on debris and rocks scattered on the road. Headlights from passing traffic lit her silhouetted form. 

Her 32-mile trek ended in New Braunfels. Delirious and tired, she collapsed on the side of the highway. EMS responders found her unresponsive, lying near the rush of high-speed traffic. 

In the ambulance, Keller said she heard a voice say, “It’s time.” 

The call, an echo of her faith, was what she needed to get her life on track again.

After Keller was discharged from the hospital, community groups helped her find temporary housing.

The haze began to lift. The day she saw her face and name on a new identification card, she felt like a member of society again.

Goodwill San Antonio, a second-chance employer, had offered a lifeline. For the last nine months, Keller has worked at a local Goodwill store that provides benefits and health insurance. She’s proud to wear her uniform of blue jeans, sneakers and a blue polo shirt with the motto, “Changing lives through the power of work.”

Vivian Gee, 43, the store’s general manager, quickly learned she could count on Keller. Keller always met production goals, but the trainee sometimes struggled and reverted to her “street self.”

Gee didn’t judge her nor dwell on outbursts. The manager stressed that “she believed in her.” Keller apologized to Gee, and the trainee learned humility and patience. She moved up to sorting and pricing wares and completed training to become a cashier.

“I’m proud of her growth,” Gee said. “She’s become well-rounded. There’s no stopping her at this point. I want to help her and the next person.”

Keller began attending a recovery program to confront her addiction. To enter the workforce, she had to look the part. She had nineteen teeth left, and each one was broken. Keller said Goodwill offered the support she needed and the means to get her smile back. 

She credits Rukus’ sacrifice for her commitment to work through years of emotional scars, physical damage and trauma. 

Weeks into her recovery, a sign of hope appeared on the streets. While riding a bicycle, Keller spied a smooth stone on the ledge of a parking garage. As she picked up the rustic gold, polished rock, she saw one word carved on the front — “remember.” 

She carries the memento in her purse every day. It’s a reminder of what it has cost her to have just one more chance. 

Originally published on April 24, 2023 - San Antonio Express-News