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.
Whenever someone comes home, I hear the key in the lock and I launch off the couch. Not because I’m lonely, but because it is my sacred duty to welcome them. “How was work?” I ask. “Traffic sucked,” they reply, already walking past me. I follow them to the kitchen anyway. I am never the one being welcomed. I am the welcome mat with legs. i became the dog in an all female household
And here’s the strange part—I love it. I used to think living with women would be complicated
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. And okay, sometimes it is
I am the dog of this house.
Here’s how I know.