Freaky or fabulous? How I justify having taxidermy at home as an animal-lover

Taxidermy. It’s one of those divisive topics. Like vaccinations, fracking and Kenny G.

Some people see it as a celebration of a beautiful animal, captured forever in a moment, to be admired for as long as they can keep the moths at bay. They happily adorn their homes with stuffed birds, small woodland creatures and leaping gazelles.

For others it a measure of dominance, man over beast. Taxidermy is a trophy of a life they have personally taken.

Then there are those in whom it inspires moral outrage. It calls them to their keyboards, to slay with razor sharp words those who would take the life of an animal for the purpose of it becoming an item of home decor or glory. For some, public shaming via Facebook simply isn’t enough and they will find themselves armed with tins of paint, ready to commit acts of gratuitous vandalism, such is their righteous wrath.

In the interests of self disclosure, I fall into category one. I have a gorgeous taxidermied peacock that perches in the corner of my lounge, fixing all with a gimlet eye. Glassy though his gaze may be, it is piercing. Some people love him and he scares the crap out of others. One thing is for sure, he never fails to start a conversation.

His name is Buckwheat. I named him after the most glittering and glamorous drag queen I know. It seemed fitting and was a compliment to both of them.

Buckwheat-the-peacock’s past however, was a checkered one. He was part of a flock who had invaded a farm down south. He and his mates wreaked havoc in the gardens. They destroyed flower beds, left toxic wastelands of poop, freaked the dogs out and in a daring display of tactical warfare, reminiscent of the Germans taking the Maginot Line, annexed the driveway so people couldn’t enter or exit the property. Cut off from his local pub and left with no other choice, the farmer made a decision, this gang of pests had to go.

To cut a long story short, naughty Buckwheat and his boys were stuffed. Some years later, he came into my possession and I have adored him ever since. But he is not the only dead animal I have loved for my own self-gratification. I have more beautiful leather shoes and handbags than are necessary and cannot survive without regular portions of meat, poultry and fish.

In contrast though, I am a huge animal lover, I support the SPCA and treat my dogs as though they are my children. Show me picture of a hunter standing over the body of an elephant, a lion, a giraffe or a bear and I will be as disgusted as the next person.

But would I feel the way I do about Buckwheat had I been forced to watch him die? Or is it okay to simply love him as he is, the same way as I love my vintage crocodile skin handbag and the United Nude heels that I wore to the supermarket to buy the piece of eye fillet I am having for dinner tonight? There is a good chance that you’ll be eating meat today too. Are those steaks we purchase morally exempt just because they are handed over sans moo and wrapped cling film?

A vast proportion of humanity, including myself, are content to use the world’s animal population as a resource. But where do we draw the line? Whether you chose to buy a chicken for your pot, that pair of new leather sandals you have been coveting or a cute taxidermy bunny to sit on your bookcase, an animal will sacrifice his life. I’m not preaching right or wrong, I’m just asking some questions about an issue that isn’t quite as black and white as it may first appear.

– This originally appeared on Stuff