My father taught himself to do taxidermy when he was a teenager, and my parents' house has a room with dozens of his mounted wildlife crowding the walls. Most of them are specimens that he found dead but intact along the road, or that friends gave him, knowing of his hobby. All kinds of birds, large and small, squirrels, weasels, a beaver, schools of fish, and even a bobcat from his high school days. He hasn't done much in the last few years, but when he was into it, he won professional ribbons at competitions even though he was an amateur. Like many things my dad does, (drawing and painting, for instance), he's easily good enough to earn a living at it. He just never wanted to. He just liked doing it and wanted to do it really well.
This crow has been downstairs, just inside the front doors, for the nine years we've lived here, startling guests and collecting dust and cobwebs. He came up here just 45 minutes ago because I knew he'd be hard to draw. Maybe he'll stay here so I can do it again. Until I can do it really well.
A crow preserved in a lifelike pose years ago by my dad, hanging from a PH 3/2 sconce in my studio.
Evening break, another stab.