So yes. I am the dog in an all-female household. No alpha energy. No master plan. Just a guy with a heartbeat, a working can opener, and an endless supply of unconditional support.
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. 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.” So yes
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. No master plan
Here’s how I know.
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.