It’s 8:00 p.m. on a Sunday. The house is quiet. Eerily so. My wife has retreated to the bedroom with a book and a “do not disturb” look. My friends have stopped answering my texts, and even the neighbors, who once welcomed my company, now seem to pull their blinds when they see me coming. Why? Because it’s WWE SummerSlam night, and I have opinions. Loud, passionate, endless opinions.

But I’m not alone. There, sprawled across the living room rug, is my loyal sidekick: Poppy, my dog. She’s the only one in the house who doesn’t roll her eyes when I start ranting about John Cena’s latest comeback or Brock Lesnar’s mysterious motives. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s starting to recognize the theme music. The moment the first guitar riff blares from the TV, her ears perk up. Maybe she’s expecting a treat, or maybe she’s just bracing herself for another night of my animated commentary.

I launch into my opening argument: Cena is overrated, Lesnar is misunderstood, and Cody Rhodes is the only real champion left. Poppy listens intently, or at least she doesn’t leave the room. She tilts her head at the right moments, sighs when I get too animated, and occasionally lets out a supportive bark (or maybe she’s just asking for a treat, but I choose to believe she’s agreeing with my take on the Janel Grant lawsuit). I swear, if she could talk, she’d have some hot takes of her own.

I try to get my family involved. “Did you see that? Lesnar just F5’d Cena through a table!” I shout. Silence. My wife is suddenly very interested in reorganizing the spice rack. My friends? They’ve learned to mute the group chat on pay-per-view nights. I once tried live-tweeting my reactions, but after the third tweet about Cena’s questionable hairline, even my Twitter followers started dropping off. But Poppy? She’s still there, her eyes glued to me (and maybe the bag of chips on the coffee table).

As the night goes on, I find myself explaining the finer points of wrestling drama to Poppy. I break down the history of the Intercontinental Championship, the importance of a good heel turn, and why Triple H’s entrance music is the best in the business. Poppy listens, occasionally wagging her tail in what I interpret as enthusiastic agreement. Sometimes, she’ll nudge my hand with her nose, as if to say, “Go on, I’m listening. Tell me more about why you think The Miz deserves another title run.”

There’s a certain freedom in ranting to a dog. She never interrupts, never argues, and never tells me to “take it down a notch.” She doesn’t ask me to explain what a “kayfabe” is or why I’m booing the TV. She just listens, her tail thumping softly against the floor, her eyes full of the kind of unconditional support you can only get from a dog—or maybe a really loyal wrestling fan who’s been through too many Royal Rumble disappointments.

Sometimes, I wonder if I’m projecting. Maybe Poppy isn’t actually invested in the outcome of the main event. Maybe she’s just hoping I’ll drop a nacho or two. But in a world where everyone else has tuned me out, my dog is my captive audience. She never complains when I rewind the best moments three times. She doesn’t sigh when I pause the show to deliver a ten-minute monologue about why John Cena’s “You Can’t See Me” taunt is both genius and infuriating. She just sits, occasionally licking her paw, the picture of patience.

There have been times when my passion has gotten the better of me. I’ve leapt off the couch, arms raised in victory after a surprise pin, only to realize the only one cheering with me is Poppy. Well, she’s wagging her tail, which is basically the same thing. I’ve tried to teach her to bark every time someone gets hit with a steel chair, but so far, she’s more interested in sniffing the remote.

The best part is, Poppy is completely nonjudgmental. She doesn’t care that I’m a grown adult yelling at the TV about scripted drama. She doesn’t mind that I sometimes wear my replica championship belt around the house. In fact, she seems to like it—she’ll nuzzle up to me as if to say, “You’re the champ in this house.” And honestly, after a long week, that’s exactly the kind of support I need.

I’ve even started to imagine what it would be like if Poppy were a wrestler. She’s got the speed, the agility, and the ability to look adorable even in the most chaotic situations. Her finishing move? The “Puppy Pounce”: a surprise leap onto the nearest lap, guaranteed to disarm any opponent with cuteness. I can see it now: “And here comes Poppy, the Underdog, taking down the competition with her signature move!”

Of course, not everyone understands this bond. I’ve had friends suggest I “get out more” or “find a hobby that doesn’t involve yelling at the television.” But they don’t know what it’s like to have a four-legged fan who’s always in your corner, no matter how many times you rant about the booking decisions or the lack of pyrotechnics in this year’s show.

Sometimes, I catch myself narrating the matches for Poppy’s benefit. “Now, watch closely, this is where the ref pretends not to see the illegal tag.” She blinks, unimpressed, but I like to think she’s absorbing the wisdom. Maybe one day, she’ll surprise me by barking in protest at a bad call or growling when the villain cheats to win.

So here’s to Poppy, the unsung hero of my wrestling fandom. She may not know the difference between a suplex and a sidewalk slam, but she’s always in my corner. And honestly, that’s more than I can say for most people.

See y’all next week!