I was pleasantly surprised that Bobby, my live in boyfriend, kept his word and stopped drinking. He attended AA meetings daily and started his own recovery. There was hope. Bobby and I made sense, I told myself. After all, Bobby loved my pound mutt Blondie almost as much as I did. He started doing more than just cleaning up around my flat, including waking up early to see me off to work with a hot cup of coffee. He even bathed Blondie in my tub.
“You should think about becoming a dog groomer,” I told him while he was rinsing the suds off her. “You’re really good at that.”
“You think so?” He asked, now drinking in the approval instead of booze.
“Well, look at her, she seems to be relaxed, don’t you think? I bet
Berry and Tony would pay you to bathe
Charlie and Gregory. You could get lots of clients just from people we know.”
He shook his head in agreement, then took Blondie out and proceeded to towel her off.
But he never did try and get grooming clients and his recovery didn't last long. Less than a month later, he started drinking again. That was bad enough but to add insult to injury, he bathed Blondie while intoxicated, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“Please don’t smoke and bathe my dog,” I told him. He was leaning over her, the tip of his cigarette dangerously close to her eyes as she sat in the tub covered in suds, looking up at me shivering, not because she was cold, because she wanted out of there. Blondie was not happy.
“In fact, do us a favor and stop giving her baths completely.”
“What? You told me I was good at this. She likes it,” he protested speaking in slurred speech.
“Not when you’re drinking,” I said.
“I’m not drinking, I’m perfectly sober,” he lied.
Bobby didn't listen, he did what he wanted when he wanted, the exact behavior that drew me to him in the first place now repulsed me. Nine months after Bobby had not really moved in with me, I had to move out in order to get away from him.