Cold Weather

I, Poppy, do not like to go out into cold weather. The humans open the door and I stand there, twenty feet away, and look at them like they're crazy. They call to me. They clap their hands. They enlist each other to help get me outside. I will not go. Sometimes I sit, and stare at them, my lips pursed in protest. Sometimes I run under the dining table, where it's hard to catch me. It is cold. Who wants to go out there?