The Taxidermist

We always knew Ralph was crazy, but it wasn't until we were in eighth grade that we decided Ralph was really crazy.

What Ralph did was to stuff his dog. His family had a ten year old beagle named Arnold, and Ralph stuffed it ... after it died of old age of course.

He stuffed a lot of things. A canary that hung in its cage from a hook in the stair hall to begin with, then a cat that belonged to my grandmother. It was a hobby he said and he got the idea after spending hours in the the museum.

I remember the canary. Ralph was only a beginner and it wasn't a very life-like representation of a household canary. He simply scooped out the insides and sewed the little thing back up again, then wired its feet to the perch it had occupied for nearly four years. Its eyes disappeared day by day, then it drew flies so Ralph's mother threw it out. I only saw the cat once, that was when my grandmother kept it on a satin pillow. Ralph tanned the hide to preserve it and then stuffed it with cotton and bent wire. Had it all curled up as though it was asleep.

In the interest of clearing space on my computer I've decided to wipe away some stories I've begun and abandoned. Maybe you'd like to read them, and if you find them to your liking, you're free to use them.

Here's number one:

Mrs. J. Courtney Williamsburg sat in her box in the Grand Tier of the Golden Horseshoe at the Metropolitan Opera House. To her right sat her mother and younger sister. To her left sat her husband’s sister and her somewhat libidinous nephew, Arnold.

Her gold beaded sleeves were not to her liking. They were too snug at her wrists for one thing; for another, they picked up light from the giant chandelier that hung above the orchestra seats and reflected nervous, twitchy points of light on the people in her immediate vicinity. It was distracting ... furthermore, it tended to amuse Arnold.