It’s the cutest game ever,

how my dog suckers me

into rubbing her belly.

Laying on the floor,

blocking my path,

baring her pink tummy,

mischief in her eyes,

daring me to even think

about passing by

without petting her.

I turn the corner from the kitchen

and she rolls over in the green chair,

demanding affection.

One sunny day, she would not come in

from the backyard.

I walked all the way over

to check on her

just for her to grin

and go belly up

as if to say,

“Gotcha!

I’m not going anywhere

‘til I get some pet pets.”

Even when she is in my girlfriend’s lap,

already being showered with attention,

she flashes me her tummy

expectantly.

A good tummy rub trap can happen

any time

anywhere

without warning

when least expected,

and it’s always impossible to resist.

Such is the peril of loving something.

I kiss her forehead every chance I get.

I put the phone down when we play.

I rub her tummy each and every instance

that it is offered.

For time is its own trap.

Someday the house will be empty

of everything except memory.