BOB KORNEGAY: Taxidermy? Sure, why not?

It dawns on me more and more lately that I am mortal. One of these days I’m going to die. When that happens, what, pray tell, will be done with me after the real me has exited my earthly “remainders” on its way to wherever it’s going? Namely, what is to become of my carcass?

There is, of course, the basic funeral complete with casket, hearse, long-winded preacher and subsequent whisking off to a renovated-cow-pasture cemetery where the only shade is that little tent they impolitely take down as soon as you’re properly planted. I’m not crazy about that notion. Never did care much for laying out in the hot sun.

Then there’s cremation. Not bad when you give it some thought. After all, it does save a good deal of space, not to mention being less expensive than the full-body job. Thing is, however, what if whoever happens to be in charge at the time is mad with me and decides to flush the ashes down the toilet. I fell into a septic tank once. It wasn’t much fun then, either.

The more I think on it now, the more I’m leaning toward taxidermy. I mean, what better final rite for an outdoorsman, especially an outdoorsman who will probably never catch a trophy fish or shoot any big game animal with horns more impressive than a year-old billy goat? Besides, I know a few taxidermists who do pretty good work at quite reasonable prices.

That does it. I’m changing my will. Taxidermy it is. Consider it awhile and you just might decide this is the way to “go” for you as well.

How about this? If I opt for a full-body mount, they can dress me in a tux and I can serve as honor guard at my own memorial service. Afterward, they can haul me home in the back of a pickup, clothe me in flannel shirt and jeans and stand me in the corner. From then on, all I’ll require is an occasional dusting-off or touching up with a hand-held vacuum cleaner. I’ll be a great conversation piece at parties. If they fix my arms just right, I can even participate. I can hear ‘em now.

“Old Bob sure does look natural, don’t he, Bubba?” Just look at him standin’ there, plate of chicken gizzards in one hand and a cold beer in the other.”

Or perhaps I could will my stuffed corpse to the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame up in Wisconsin. I’m never going to make the “Legendary Angler” or “Legendary Communicator” list, but, hey, I could stand there at the front entrance and greet visitors, couldn’t I? Maybe I could even be equipped with one of those push-button recording thingies.

Also, if I get myself taxidermied future generations will never be at a loss for a classroom show-and-tell idea. I wouldn’t even mind being passed around, provided the students are cautioned to take care not to break off an ear or rub off any hair.

Better yet, whoever gets my “trophy” could simply donate me to a rod and gun club whose members would put me on display among their other keepsake mounts from years gone by. That way, I can rest easy knowing there will never be another unkind word spoken about me by the outdoor fraternity.

Like the deer heads hanging over the fireplace and the bass on the foyer walls, I would be the subject of countless blatant-but-flattering lies told over glasses of good brandy and expensive cigars. Of course, I would have to suffer the embarrassment of being tape-measured and scored on a semi-regular basis, but that’s a small price to pay.

All these are completely viable and doable options. Really, though, I’m not all that choosy about specifics. What my descendants decide to do with their “trophy” once delivery is taken is strictly up to them.

I only ask two things. One, please insist that the taxidermist gets the eyes straight. Two, do not, whatever you do, hang me on the office wall of a lawyer or politician.

Contact outdoors columnist and writer Bob Kornegay at [email protected].