Let’s be real here: if I die tomorrow (which, statistically speaking, is possible, though not as likely as me misplacing my keys for the 17th time today), it’s going to happen like this:

I’ll be walking down the street, minding my own business, probably listening to a podcast about true crime or obsessively Googling my zodiac sign’s future. And then, bam—it’ll happen.

There, across the street, in all their fluffy glory, will be a dog. It can be any dog, mind you, all dogs clearly possess a kind of cuteness that causes a delay in the space-time continuum. The dog whose eyes are so soulful, it feels like they know your deepest secrets, your hopes, your dreams, and your secret shameful habit of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner.

And, naturally, I’m going to ask the most classic, universally understood question that’s bound to make the universe itself pause: “Can I pet your dog?”

Here’s the thing, though. I’m not asking for permission just because I’m a kind, considerate human who respects boundaries. No, no. It’s because, at that moment, everything in the world will fade away except my desire to stroke that soft, fluffy ball of love and happiness. I’m fully aware that all my priorities will shift immediately. For me asking to pet a dog is more sacred than asking for a glass of water in the desert.

And here’s the kicker: as I kneel down in that epic, life-changing moment to give the dog the belly rub (because you know that’s the one thing that will make me feel like a hero in my final hours), something will go horribly wrong. Maybe I’ll misstep and accidentally knock over a fire hydrant. Or, maybe the dog will decide that now is the time to chase a squirrel across the street, and I’ll trip over a pothole while I attempt to follow it.

Then, as I face-plant into the pavement, I will breathe my last breath while muttering, “Best. Bellyrub. Ever.”

But honestly, I’m okay with this. I’ve made my peace. No dramatic last words needed. I don’t need to leave behind a legacy of world-changing accomplishments or inspire the masses with my insights. The world doesn’t need me to write that novel or finally finish my spreadsheet. No. My final act will be one of pure joy, simplicity, and love—petting a dog.

People can write books, win awards, and leave behind multi-million dollar fortunes. But me? I’ll be remembered as the person who, with their last breath, wanted nothing more than to share a moment with the dog that would never judge me for my questionable fashion choices or obsession with obscure snacks. I will go out as I lived—chasing joy, one belly rub at a time.

So, when it happens, and the inevitable day comes (as it surely will), just know: I’ll be out there, in the street, asking for one last dog petting session. And if that’s what kills me, then so be it. I can’t think of a better way to go. Just make sure the dog knows I did it for them. My death will be caused by the pure joy of asking to pet a dog. And honestly, I’m fine with that.