The Femboy’s Dog

SUMMARY OF THE GAME

I’m a toy dog—no, more than that, I’m the happiest toy dog in the world.

I didn’t come to that conclusion lightly. After careful thinking, I realized I already have everything that makes life perfect: a warm little doghouse, an owner who pats my head every day, and a rubber duck that squeaks. The three essentials of happiness—and I, Sir Woof, possess them all.

My owner is a femboy.

They’re tall, fair, and have soft, silky hair, drifting around the house in a lace skirt like they’ve stepped out of a storybook. Sure, storybook characters don’t usually snack endlessly while laughing at silly videos until they snort—but I ignore that. To me, they’re still the most beautiful being in existence.

And every night, I sleep right beside the edge of their skirt.

Each morning begins the same way: they lift me out of my doghouse, squish my face, and greet me with a high-pitched “Good morning, cute puppy!” I try to stay dignified—but honestly, when your face is being squished like that, dignity becomes a very low priority.

My days follow a perfect rhythm.

Morning squishes. Sunbathing before noon. Following my owner everywhere in the afternoon—“guarding” them, even if it means waiting outside the bathroom only to be gently pushed away. Evenings are for playing ball. Nights are for curling up beside that familiar lace hem while they binge their shows.

It’s a simple life. A pure life. A perfect one.

Sometimes, they dress me up for photos. A tiny suit, a sailor outfit, even a pumpkin costume—and once, a lace skirt of my own. I’ve chosen to forget that last one ever happened. But they laughed so much, so I decided it was worth sacrificing my pride.

Ball time, though—that’s the best part of my day.

The second they lift the ball, something inside me explodes with excitement. My paws start moving on their own, my tail spins uncontrollably, and my eyes lock onto the prize. My entire mind reduces to one thought:

Ball ball ball ball ball—

“Go fetch!”

And I run.

The wind rushes past me, the ground flies beneath me, my tongue flaps wildly behind—and in that moment, I feel like I’m living as a dog should. When I catch the ball and race back, seeing my owner waiting with open arms—

That sight is the most beautiful thing in the world.

I believed those moments would never end.

I believed every “go fetch!” would be followed by “good boy.”

I believed those open arms would always be there for me.

Until one morning, they threw the ball farther than ever before.

“Go fetch! Go fetch!”

Without hesitation, I dashed after it—