I Became: The Dog In An All Female Household

Not literally. But they will decide it’s time for fresh air, grab my arm, and say, “We’re going to the farmer’s market. You’re carrying the bags.” I go. I do not resist. I trot alongside them, slightly behind, holding reusable totes like a Labrador carrying a duck.

The living room has changed colors four times in six months. There are throw pillows that serve no function. A tapestry of a moon phases chart. A plant named Gerald that gets more texts than I do. When they ask, “What do you think of the new rug?” I say, “It’s nice.” Because the correct answer is always “It’s nice.” My actual opinion— it’s beige, just like the last one —does not matter. I am here to provide warmth and occasional comic relief, not interior design critique. i became the dog in an all female household

In a house of women, words are abundant. Too abundant. Debates about which Real Housewife is the most toxic can last three hours. I have learned that a single, well-timed sigh from the couch speaks volumes. It says, “I am here. I support you. Please stop yelling about Lisa Rinna.” Not literally

I am the dog of this house.

It started subtly. I moved in with three women—my sister, her best friend, and a quiet art student named Maya who only emerges for oat milk and existential dread. I thought I was joining a democracy. I was wrong. I had entered a matriarchy, and in that ecosystem, there are only two roles: the cat or the dog. I do not resist

I used to think living with women would be complicated. Emotional. Full of passive-aggressive dish warfare. And okay, sometimes it is. But mostly, it’s warm. It’s loud in the best way. There’s always music playing, always someone to talk to, always a random baked good appearing on the counter for no reason.

Now if you’ll excuse me, someone just said “walk” and I have to go stand by the door.