[Background: end of a short piece in which a young taxi driver is sitting in front of his parents' house in his taxi debating how to tell them their Yorkie is dead.]
The problem is, Poochie-bear has--as the Monty Pythons would say--expired, ceased to be, gone to meet 'is maker. He is an ex-Yorkie. Sorry, mate.
Yeah, Officer Krumke, I'm the one what done it, kicked the mutt's bucket when he wasn't looking. I am the Poochie-bear slayer. You'll never take me alive, Officer Krumke. Stop laughing when I need to be mercy-kicked into the next life.
"Mom...stop crying...it was an accident. I didn't mean it, Mom."
"You're no son of mine. "
My confession might go better than that, but only marginally. I will be disowned, disinherited and generally dissed. The worst part is that I'll lose my fall-back position: my old bedroom in Mom's and Dad's house in case my steampunk revival rock band, The Steam Loco-Motives, doesn't pan out and I get evicted from my studio apartment. (The taxi company is looking for me fervently, and I don't anticipate having free transportation for the band much longer.)
Life is not fair.
"Calm yourself, fool," I say. The parental units deserve a fair explanation of the demise of their beloved mutt. I take a deep breath and ready myself. I try to think, what would Johnny Rotten do? Nothing useful comes to mind, so I pound my head on the steering wheel until I agree with myself.
Before facing my parents, I decide to verify that this has been a waking experience rather than the nightmare it seems. I get out of my taxi and look underneath it. Yeah, Poochie-bear really is there. That sucks a lot.