Most taxidermists don’t consider ours a true profession. But I say who cares? I’d rather celebrate wild imaginings, rather than slavishly devote myself to the actual, never leaving the confines of that which has been and always will be. I’ve pitched my tent somewhere in middle, where bat wings merge with webbed duck feet and the feathers are those of a diving cormorant. Why not? This past May when I attended the Rogue Taxidermists’ convention for the first time I discovered my tribe — an unruly lot. Amid the rows of vendors selling polyurethane, galvanized wire and glass eyes, I slipped into endless arguments about the type of teeth griffins should have and whether or not mermaid’s skin should feel smooth to the touch or a bit leathery. The convention was held in Las Vegas naturally. I gazed out onto the parched desert from the fifteenth floor at the MGM. My room was bathed in an ethereal greenish glow. Flooded with relief, a feeling of being part of something larger than myself, I went online and posted pictures of my nest of griffins ripping apart a unicorn to share with my new found buddies