Rats

 This is an excerpt from the book, “I Have No Business Being Here” - available now. Read the whole collection here.

I have a dead mouse on my desk. It didn't die there. I actually made it. I always say "made" because when I say stuffed, it sounds like what you do with a turkey and people always assume it has something to do with the butt.

I feel like if I say I made it, it lends an air of creativity. I sound like an artist. You might wonder how I came to make a dead mouse. The short answer is Facebook algorithms. I don't know what I was searching that caused Facebook to suggest, "Mouse Taxidermy for Beginners" as something I might be interested in, but it was right.

That's the thing about the algorithms. They know us better than our closest friends, our most intimate partners, and even ourselves, because I didn't know that I wanted to sign up for Mouse Taxidermy, until I saw the ad and thought, "Oh yeah."

The main reason why I wanted to do it was that I wanted to see what type of weirdos would sign up for a mouse taxidermy class. And so, I signed up for the class.

I was given two options to sign up: send a Facebook message or call the store. The thought of saying out loud to another person, "I would like to give you money to do this please," was too embarrassing and horrifying. Instead, I sent a vague message. Facebook reads your messages, you know. I thought I was one more mention of taxidermy away from being put on a watch list.

I said, "I would like to sign up for the class on March 23." The reply came, "Cool, call me for details."

I closed my very fancy corporate lawyer door on a Thursday morning and whispered my clandestine plans into the phone. I gave him my credit card information, and I was in. It turns out there's not a prerequisite.

I get a lot of questions when I tell people I did this class. The second most asked question behind, "Did you wear gloves" (No), is "How much did it cost?" I can tell you it is $165, mouse included.

It was held in the back room of an antique store. I was the first to arrive, except for a woman in jean cut off shorts, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She was the teacher, but she made us call her The Professor.

Another woman entered shortly thereafter. She was shy and hunkered over, with a yellow cardigan pulled tight across her shoulders. She said, "Thank god for this class. I shouldn't have tried to do this myself at home. Especially not with something so big."

I couldn't help myself, so I asked, "Did you do a moose for your first time, too?" They both looked at me, silent and disgusted. Taxidermy Lesson Number 1: Taxidermy is not a joke.

The Yellow Cardigan said, "No, it was a cat."

All I could think was, Where did she get the cat? And then I asked her out loud, "Where did you get the cat?"

She said, "The road." I imagined this woman, plastic grocery bag in one hand, spatula in the other, going out and scooping up the remains of someone's pet. I wondered, did she do it in the day light? Did she wait for cover of darkness? Which is more horrifying?

The Professor stopped her. "No, no, no. You cannot taxidermy roadkill. Roadkill has disease inside of it that no doctor can even diagnose." Taxidermy Lesson Number 2: Don't do roadkill.

Yellow Cardigan nodded and said, "I just wish my apartment was bigger. It was such a mess and those YouTube videos were not helpful." Then again, I just pictured her hunkered over her coffee table, covered in entrails, trying to rewind the YouTube video with her one clean pinky.

The professor scoffed at the woman and adopted a serious voice. "No, no. You cannot use YouTube videos. You must take an in-person class to do it right." Taxidermy Lesson Number 3: Don't try this at home.

Other people eventually entered, and I made my way to the other end of the table. I took a seat beside a woman in jean overalls, wearing a pair of wing-tipped glasses and this short and spiky haircut. I could tell around her kids' middle school that she was the "fun mom." The professor passed around our mice, and when fun mom got hers, she cradled it in her hands.

As we considered our mice, the Professor told us that they were all boy mice. Female mice have milk ducts that are way too hard to cut out.

She told us, "I did you a favor and ordered a whole bag of boys."

Fun Mom looked down so sad and told her mouse, "Oh no, I already named you Ophelia."

We began cutting the mice open. The Professor let us know that everything in front of us was an every day object. From the scalpel to the safety scissors, she assured us that these were all things we could find easily at home. In the center of the table was a collection of bottles of gel Super Glue. She emphasized many times the importance of gel.

"You would not believe the mice I have seen ruined by using the wrong glue," she said. All I could wonder is how do you ruin a dead mouse? By gluing it to your hand, to the paper plates, to the table? What do you write on the emergency room intake form?

After the skin was removed, the Professor came around to collect the carcasses in a gallon Ziploc bag. She told us, "Do not worry. Nothing goes to waste. I will personally mail these to an artist in Florida who does bone art." I am not sure the declaration one has to make at the post office to mail off sacks full of animal carcasses, but she seemed like she had done it before.

Before the Professor had collected them all, Yellow Cardigan piped up. "Excuse me, can we keep our carcasses?" I thought, We? No, look around, sister. You're the only one with your hand up.

At that question, the Professor, a woman who just told us she had seen mice be ruined, had a horrified look on her face. "I guess," the Professor said. After all, the class was advertised as $165, mouse included. Seemed like Yellow Cardigan wanted the whole mouse.

The Professor handed her a small sandwich sized Ziploc bag. Yellow Cardigan dropped the skinless little body inside and sealed it shut. She then leaned over and slipped it into her tote bag beneath the table. Thirty minutes into a three-hour class.

When it was time to stuff the mice, the Professor let us know that the stuffing we were using was high quality. She said, "This is the same stuffing they use at Build-a-Bear." I suppose you could open up a mall store front, call it Stuff-a-Mouse, and watch as all the parents fight to get reservations. We are having Jaden's birthday party at Stuff-a-Mouse this year. $165, but you keep the mouse.

After we stuffed them, we had to mount them. The Professor gave us these blocks of wood with wires sticking out of them. I took one for myself. I took a look at my mouse, and with a whispered apology, I shoved the wire right up its butt. Another woman asked if we had to use the blocks.

She reached beneath the table and pulled out a chihuahua-sized plastic dragon.

"I brought this," she said.

The Professor said, with zero judgment, "I will help you." She then helped this woman glue her mouse to the back of the dragon so that it ended up riding the beast, triumphant. The woman was grateful and pulled out a small golden wig that she had braided herself. She whispered as she fitted the wig to the mouse's head, "This is Khaleesi mouse."

Meanwhile, Fun Mom beside me had pulled out an entire bedroom set. She created a bed and headboard with popsicle sticks painted white. She had a tiny little mouse quilt, a tiny little mouse pillow, and a tiny little book for the mouse to read. Ophelia was set. I thought to myself, These people are lunatics.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my 1970s vintage Barbie doll graduation robe for which I had scoured eBay. It was perfect. I wrapped it around the mouse and carefully glued it with the gel superglue. I cut the bottom of the robe down to size. I sat back and I was disappointed.

It was just a stupid rat in a black dress, not the revered Supreme Court justice that I hoped it would be. Just as my disappointment set in, Fun Mom asked the group, "Does anyone need any extra lace?"

"Yes," I said, taking it from her and gluing it to my mouse's collar. Suddenly, there she was: The Honorable Rat Bader Ginsburg.

I looked around at everyone and their creations and thought, What a bunch of weirdos. When class finished, I set Rat Bader Ginsberg in my passenger seat, cranked on the engine, and drove her home.

****

The Honorable Justice Rat Bader Ginsburg