Not long after I railed against death yesterday -- my #1 Most Hated, followed by cancer -- I was reminded that that's utter nonsense. How could someone like me, someone who loves dead stuff, hate death? Me, a person who will stop a car to get out and look at and photograph, if not pick up and take home, roadkill? Me, a person who has many times extolled the virtues of death as allowing for close examination of animals who would otherwise hightail it far, far out of reach? Me, a person with an animal skull collection and with specimens (vulture, fox, bobcat, vole) buried all over the yard? Absurd! Utter nonsense!
I am grateful to Paxton Gate in San Francisco for reminding of me this fact.
But do I really have $385 for this class? If I sell off unwanted possessions, maybe? I can certainly rationalize it as a therapy right now, as a way to mend fences with the big D, on whom I cast so many aspersions yesterday (as in, "death and his bullshit,"etc.). And now of course because my sweet Jas is across that loathsome rainbow bridge, there will be no one trying to eat these delectable museum-quality small mammal mounts.