And now something on taxidermy:

“So what do people do with all their new taxidermy? Is a stuffed mouse in a Musketeer chapeau something to be kept through the passing decades? And if not, does the immortally preserved mouse get thrown out with the food scraps once it’s lost its charm? Or is it better to hold onto these creatures, as I did with Rupert and we do with so much detritus from our passing lives and loves, not because we chose or cherish them, but because they have become part of the uncomfortable baggage of our existence.
Living with Rupert made me realize that the making of taxidermy came with a responsibility, a duty for stewardship. That protective emotion probably arose because bad taxidermy makes me so sad. It makes the animals’ death and misuse so abrasively obvious. Soldiering through eternity stuck in a stump with a gormless smile, Rupert was a perversely tragic victim. Perhaps that sounds overly sentimental. He was, after all, already dead. But I truly felt Rupert’s endless afterlife was my burden.
But then, secretly and silently, Rupert got the moth. Deep in the inner sanctum of his stump Rupert had become a hothouse of insect destruction.”

Read Rachel Poliquin’s enlightening article here.

A couple of months ago I planned to go to a taxidermy workshop, unfortunately I didn't have enough time. I don’t plan to become a fulltime taxidermist, but I’d like to say: “Taxidermy is always an option.”