I Dare You to Tell Poppy to Move 

It all started with the unmistakable jingle of my car keys. Before I could even get my shoes on, here came Poppy Pop — a blur of fur and excitement — skidding into the room like she’d been training for this moment her whole life. She’s made the connection: keys = car ride.

Now, I had a simple plan — run out to pick up my Friday night fish fry carry-outs (if you’re from Wisconsin, you know this is more than dinner… it’s a weekly ritual). Brandy or Southern Comfort Old-Fashions might be part of the tradition for some, but not for me. Still, I couldn’t say no to Poppy’s pleading eyes. She was coming along.

With both the front and back doors of the car open, I assumed she’d hop into the back like a well-mannered travel buddy. Silly me. Poppy made a beeline for the front seat — my seat — and plopped herself down like she’d just claimed a throne.

What followed was a ridiculous, good-natured standoff. We pushed. We pulled. We offered blueberries as a bribe (her favorite). She remained exactly where she was, tail wagging, eyes sparkling with mischief. It was less about riding shotgun and more about proving she could win.

In the end, Poppy wore the same proud grin she always does when she gets her way — the one that says, “I’m not just cute, I’m strategic.” And there I was, standing outside the car, laughing at how a dog with a blueberry-stained smile could outwit me every single time.

Poppy doesn’t just go for rides — she takes over the journey. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.