It doesn’t really appall or disgust me, not for me. I’m not against hunting; it’s just not for me. I’m just not the kind of person that could kill animals as a recreational activity, I can hardly kill animals at all, even bugs. Not in all cases, but generally, I pick them up with a tissue and escort them out of the house. I will confess, I had a bit of mouse problem for a while and I did leave tasty poison treats around in the attic for them.
I suppose if I didn’t mind shooting and killing animals I probably wouldn’t mind hanging their heads up on the wall and them staring at me. And there was a bar in Portland that had a big bucks head over the door and every time anyone went in or out of the bar it’s eyes would light up red. I kind of liked that. And I like natural history museums and they have taxidermied displays.
I’ve heard of people have their pets preserved with taxidermy. That I just couldn’t ever, ever do. I would never have done it anyway but particularly not after my cat Casper died. He was 21, with advanced cancer, multiple fibrosarcomas on his back, and one night he curled up in the crook of my elbow, with his head resting in my armpit, like many nights and we both went to sleep. When I woke up he was dead, and in full rigor. It was horrible, not just that he was dead, but so lifeless and so stiff. It was awful. That’s what having a taxidermied pet would seem like to me. A beloved, dead animal in a perpetual state of rigor. I know taxidermy is something of an artform, I guess, it takes skill to make the animal look like it is kind of still alive, but, still not for me, not at all.