The Five Stages of Mourning Floppy

DENIAL

It couldn't have been our fault! I know we let the little guy off his leash for a minute during the keg stands, but still! Who knew he'd run off like that, as if he didn't like us or the noise or the obnoxiousness or the heavy metal that totally rules? I thought Pomeranians were into thrash rock. Aren't they Finnish or something?

ANGER

So now PETA is calling me about Floppy. "He was run over by our own parade float, and now we look like shit!" Boo hoo, you bastards. "We need you to issue a statement absolving our organization!" Oh ho ho, finally getting your comeuppance for all those red-paint-ruined fur coats, are we? Well, fuck you! You're the ones who killed him!

BARGAINING

Okay, so maybe that's too harsh. PETA means well, and it is a tragedy that Floppy is basically a road stain now, so I can see their point. It's not my fault, but maybe if the world were a little more fair to us thrashing dudes, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe Pomeranians were never meant to be roadies, and my mom shouldn't have gifted me Floppy from the start. 

DEPRESSION

But that little guy was such a great ride along! He knew every amp cable we needed fetched by heart and only whined when I forgot about his ear plugs. Ugh, it hurts. I'll forever miss his terrified look when I lit my guitar on fire in the third set and kept playing it like a lunatic. I can only see those enormous eyes in my dreams now.

ACCEPTANCE

So I can't say I expected my heavy metal career to be felled by a dog and a bunch of hippies, but here we are. The world isn't always fair and I have to live with that, even if it means my headbanging days may be over due to the upcoming trial. I'd like to believe Floppy would be proud of me for facing the music, but let's face it, that dog never knew how to rock.