I’m going to hell. In a white wicker hand basket. With a pink bow on the handle.

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I was surfing the internet this morning and came along “Walter Potter-Taxidermist.” The above is one of his many creations. Apparently, he specialized in turning groups of small dead animals into story book scenes way back in the 1800’s before Peta came along and ruined taxidermy for everyone.

Much to my dismay I started “ooing” and “ahing.”

I started negotiating the legitimacy of my awe and the ethics of Potter’s creation with myself. “Well,” I bargained, “these kitties would be dead anyway…It’s not like they’d be hopping around right now. And now everyone can enjoy them. They’re kittens and they’re drinking tea!”

Then I imagined some child, preferably a cute little girl wearing some kind of bow in her hair, a little girl who doesn’t belong to me, who I don’t have to feed or care for, “oohing” and “ahing” over the very same scene. And I smiled to myself, because I knew that that scene would be so cute and I wouldn’t be the one who’d have to explain to her that they were dead kitties, because she has parents to do that, and I’m not her parent, I’m just a silly passerby who will smile at her and think it’s all so damn adorable. Because they are kitties! And they are drinking tea! And eating CRUMPETS!

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