I’ve seen this picture before. Apparently, a lion belonged to a...

I’ve seen this picture before. Apparently, a lion belonged to a king of somewhere, and when the lion died, he was heartbroken. The guy he hired to do the taxidermy apparently had never seen a live lion before and this was the best he could do.

I could look up the actual story and get some real specifics, but that isn’t the point. I can only imagine myself loving my cat so much that I couldn’t bear to bury her when she died.

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This is Mittens. She lived to be 17 years old — I got her as a week-old kitten when I was 9. Mittens bonded with me and basically nobody else. She followed me, slept in my bed, gave me little nibbles when she was super happy. But then her kidneys started failing, she got a touch of the diabetes, and my parents gave me that horrible phone call: “Listen, Melanie, we’ve got to put her to sleep so she doesn’t suffer.”

I agreed. 

Now, in reality, my mom buried her in the backyard. But let’s suppose I’d hired a taxidermist. Maybe a nice pose like she’s waiting for me to come home. I could still rub her little noggin and though she’d be gone, I could say goodbye gradually. I don’t know. But then the taxidermist calls me up to say he’s done and I go to his office to find 

this piece of shit.

That’s not Mittens. You just took my sweet little kitty, mutilated her body and sold her back to me? 

(So, in order to get that second picture, I had to look up the story. Here it is: http://www.themarysue.com/lion-taxidermy/)

Instead of seeing the stuffed cat I’d grown to love so much I can’t stop uncontrollably weeping, I have this doofy monstrosity mocking me every time I walk through the door. “That’s what you get for being friends with an animal! Hur!”

Anyway, thinking back to that 18th century king, I can imagine him shaking his head (because lions are big) and thinking, “What the hell am I gonna do with Captain Snuffles now?”