I hadn’t killed it; I want to make that clear. All the tutorials I’d seen had been performed on roadkill, but there wasn’t much of that on the ice-slicked streets outside my door.
There were cats, though: tough little critters who loped through the snow and sank fangs into necks even more frail than their own. I’d put the word out to the neighbours, and that landed me a Tupperware container that did not contain leftovers.
‘Thanks for this, little one.’ It seemed the right thing to say.
Then I slid the scalpel along the bird’s stomach.
It’s not for everyone, but I find taxidermy beautiful. The creatures we have in the shop are extraordinary; even after nine months of working there, their little faces still take my breath away, alert and alive. When I reach into a packing crate and my fingertips meet bubble wrap, my heart beats faster imagining what’s about to be revealed – pointed ears, a russet spine, a lavish tail. Each one is a work of art. ‘Beautiful’ might be a strange description to some, but to me it fits.
I spent the entire morning on the bird, longer than the tutorial suggested. It was my first proper attempt, so I took my time.
When it was scraped clean of flesh, I popped the skin in a jar of methylated spirits, the cape of sodden feathers still attached to the skull. I picked up the jar with both hands and slowly tilted it.
The feathers moved through the fluid in a gentle dance. I set the jar back down, sensitive of its vulnerability. Stripped of its former self – its tiny frame of bones and flesh – it didn’t even look like a bird anymore. This was the stage I was most entranced by, full of potential and promise.
I hoped I was ready.
When I’d carefully gone over the instructions for the next steps, I cleaned my tools and laid them out next to my notebook: needle-nose pliers, tweezers, fine-gauge wire, cotton and thread, cornmeal paste, glass eyes. Round two.
The lid of the jar came off with a single turn. With the tweezers I lifted the creature out of its bath and shook it gently, then laid the skin and skull on a wad of absorbent towel. For a moment I stood silently, gazing at the way the beak refined to a translucent point, and the ancient, still curve of the eye socket.
When this stage was complete the creature would be more than restored. If I worked carefully, if my movements were focused and fluid, then this little life would be . . . honoured.
Folding over a square of paper towel, I began to dry the fragile skin.
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