Getting Stuffed

Mounting came to me in the Dark Forest Hospital for Children’s Chaplaincy Centre. I had just lost my new husband to a fishing expedition, and my 12-year-old stepdaughter was in an induced coma after choking on an apple slice. Yes, an apple slice. For the uninitiated, the space of what-the-hell-do-I-do-now-ness felt a lot like being asphyxiated by a bagpipe, each squeeze bringing me closer to bleakness, impending financial ruin, and apoplectic rage. That’s when I stumbled into a taxidermy support group.

You’re likely imagining a bunch of axe-wielding weirdos, elbow-deep in dead stuff amidst Bloody Marys and possum pelts. The reality was closer to six grim individuals huddled around a tarp-covered fold-out table in a multi-purpose room hidden in a hospital basement, trying to recall why they agreed to skin small animals salvaged from the undercarriage of ambulances. I had a squished mouse; and an excuse to suspend reality between hospital visiting hours. 

The Chaplaincy Centre’s taxidermy support group proved a sanctuary those seven dark days. My stepdaughter pulled through. I survived the extended sentence thanks to the gentle guidance in the art of mounting and emerged with a bereaved preteen and an anthropomorphic rodent in a ruby red satin gown. That minuscule murine taught me that life’s a lot like roadkill: hardships can run you over, but smarts will always cover the tracks. 

I held onto this tenet to survive the triple threat that was widowhood, motherhood and step-teenhood. What is it about daughters that somehow reflect 20/20 vision on all your past potential, opportunities, and a love so strong that its frightening? Accepting impermanence didn’t resuscitate my former life, but it drove a desire for a new chapter that worked for my new family. I got deeper into mounting, affording more damaged animals a second a lease after their circumstantial mishaps. I got good too; enough to gradually swap the extra shifts at cosmetic counters for taxidermy master classes that helped bring my side hustle to the Dark Forest Farmer Market. 

Women of a certain age may remember the day they walked through a crowd and realised people were no longer vying for their singular attention. No softening of the other person’s features in a bid to be pleasing, just to bask in your favour. Yes, that privilege and power is fleeting – bestowed only until it is bitterly snatched by the next flower in bloom. Unlike my shifts at the department stores, I wasn’t peddling youth at Farmer Markets, it was mounted magic.

My stall was both discombobulating and enchanting. Creatures ranged from forest to well dwellers, big and small. Each was a careful interpretation of my own personal domestic joy, dressed in exquisitely crafted garments, celebrating what others may dismiss as the mundane: oodie-clad badger besties giggle and blush at a snake in a sheer white shirt emerging from a pond; a parkrun ribbon entangles a turtle’s bent knees, his arms spread wide, and face scrunched with welling tears. There were larger pieces too: a masked deer in hazmat and paint sprayer against a stencilled wall featuring a wombat with a pearl earring. Each came with a little story on what inspired it. It was all grotesquely fascinating, and thankfully, charming enough to pull purchases and commissions too. Sure, there were the trolls – I once had to decline a commission from an archaic Fox Hunting Association on ethical grounds. The ramifications were a relocated stall next to the porta pottys – an inadvertent blessing that brought more traffic to my creatures. There was suddenly so much interest, I was pulled into expanding the old taxidermy support group with a few introduction courses of my own too.  

The pickle was my adult stepdaughter. At 27 - a travelling biologist, runner, and podcaster. She was always tinkering in my studio, taking pictures and soundbites. She had an arsenal of talents, but the one I feared the most was a new caustic tongue. My enthusiasm at having her home was dwarfed by off-hand remarks that seemed to show the cracks on every achievement that came my way. I suspected her boorish behaviour stemmed from an insecurity I could never heal, but the hurtful words surely ate into my heart and liver.

Messing with the Fox Hunting Association came back to hound me. Someone had written to the council denouncing taxidermy as a ‘gesture of objectification and human supremacy over animals’, that was tainting our town. Overnight, my pieces were confiscated until the Dark Forest Council soul-searched their ethical boundaries. My little studio was shut down, and neither my small business community nor taxidermy support group had sufficient clout to sway the political decision makers. My deadly bagpipe was back playing familiar dark music. Why does fate never place me the fairest of them all?

Then I received a special delivery: a letter from the Silver Lining Arts Council. ‘Your singular work depicting the everyday joys with your daughter really moved us, as did her supporting podcast series on your community leadership towards leading a resurgence in taxidermy for the 21st Century. We recognise your contribution and would like to offer you a Project Grant that aims to support individual cultural and creative practitioners to take their work to the next stage…Congratulations.’ 

To say I was surprised that my daughter had been proud of me all this while would have been an understatement. There is always more than meets the eye, and her smarts did more than cover the tracks – they slayed dragons. My girl’s carefully curated podcast included interviews with former taxidermy support members, customers and small businesses that shed light on how the lost art of mounting creates a community of second chances. There was love, compassion and understanding that humbled me. It was certainly enough to annihilate the Fox Hunting Association and convince the council to allow me to return to business. 

I’m not saying my girl and I spend our Friday nights chasing down ambulances to beat the throngs wanting to harvest ambulance roadkill. What we do have is a mutual commitment to keeping the lines of conversation open. I’m still negotiating a shift rota and podcast plugs for my Farmer Market stall…

You’re listening to Tall Tales 24/7, I’m Snow White. Stuffing dead animals can be just as powerful as the Mona Lisa, says upcoming small business owner of Enchanted Beasts. Skip the Louvre and stay tuned for enduring life lessons to be drawn from the work of Dark Forest’s very own taxidermy queen, and my mum, Grimhilde White.