Became The Dog In An All Female Household: I

The cats are the women. They are elegant, independent, and territorial. They take long baths, leave cryptic sticky notes on the fridge (“Who finished the hummus? 👀”), and can go silent for hours while radiating judgment. I, on the other hand, am the dog.

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.

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.” i became the dog in an all female household

Last week, Sarah dropped half an avocado toast. I looked at it. She looked at me. She said, “Five-second rule?” I ate it. No plate. No dignity. Just floor guacamole and a quiet sense of purpose.

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

I am the dog of this house.

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. 👀”), and can go silent for hours while

When a strange noise came from the alley at 2 AM, I grabbed a flashlight and went outside. I am the pseudo-man of the house. I check the locks. I kill the spiders (via relocation, because they won’t let me kill them). But I also know that if I left for a week, they’d survive just fine. They’d probably reorganize the pantry and forget to tell me. I am the dog: loyal, useful, but ultimately not running the pack.

The cats are the women. They are elegant, independent, and territorial. They take long baths, leave cryptic sticky notes on the fridge (“Who finished the hummus? 👀”), and can go silent for hours while radiating judgment. I, on the other hand, am the dog.

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.

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.”

Last week, Sarah dropped half an avocado toast. I looked at it. She looked at me. She said, “Five-second rule?” I ate it. No plate. No dignity. Just floor guacamole and a quiet sense of purpose.

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

I am the dog of this house.

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.

When a strange noise came from the alley at 2 AM, I grabbed a flashlight and went outside. I am the pseudo-man of the house. I check the locks. I kill the spiders (via relocation, because they won’t let me kill them). But I also know that if I left for a week, they’d survive just fine. They’d probably reorganize the pantry and forget to tell me. I am the dog: loyal, useful, but ultimately not running the pack.