An enormous stuffed crocodile has hung from the rafters of a cathedral in the small Italian town of Ponte Nossa for centuries, and nobody can say for sure why. Church documents mention it as far back as 1534, which makes it the world's oldest known piece of taxidermy. It is at least 500 years old, and it has kept its secrets the whole time.
The cathedral itself exists because of a miracle. In 1511, a group of shepherdesses gazing at a painting of the crucifixion saw the Virgin Mary's left eye open and close. Blood appeared on her cheek. One girl wiped the bloody tears away with her apron, and the painted Madonna spoke, telling them to spread the news and build a church on that very ground. Construction was authorized eight days later and finished by 1533. Today it is the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Immaculate Tears.
A dragon in the rafters
The crocodile vanished for years and turned up again in the 1700s, right in the church attic. Somebody dusted it off and strung it back up, and it has dangled there ever since. Crocodiles hold no holy place in Catholic belief, yet at least two more hang in churches elsewhere in Italy.
The theories don't hold up well. One says crocodiles once roamed Europe, stalking and eating the locals, and there is zero evidence for it. Another says old churches were once packed with stuffed animals and only the crocodile's tough hide survived. There is no evidence for that one either. The likeliest explanation is that the crocodile is the real animal that best matches the Bible's description of a dragon, and the Bible has some righteous dragon tales.
Taxidermy is far older than any cathedral. The ancient Egyptians preserved a pharaoh's birds, dogs, monkeys and cats with spices and oils and sent them into the tomb with their master. Getting the look right wasn't the point, so the results were probably horrifying and hilarious in equal measure. Crazy how they seem to have invented everything but electricity and Dippin Dots.
Walruses without wrinkles
Plenty of bad taxidermy lives in famous museums. In 1866, a taxidermist stuffing a walrus for London's Horniman Museum and Gardens had never laid eyes on one, and nobody sent a description along with the hide. He had no idea walruses are wrinkly, so he packed it tight until it looked like an exploding ballpark hot dog. At Gripsholm Castle in Sweden, the lion that had been King Frederick I's beloved pet came out looking like a stuffed toy dreamed up by a lunatic.
Then there are gaffes, which are creatures that never existed outside a taxidermist's imagination. P.T. Barnum showed off the Fiji mermaid in 1842. In 1934, in Douglas, Wyoming, a taxidermist named Ralph Herrick and his brother gave the world the jackalope, a jackrabbit with a full rack of antlers. Back in the Renaissance, aristocrats kept chimeras, animals stitched together from the hides, feathers, claws and teeth of several species, in what they called a Cabinet of Curiosity, a showcase for impressing their guests.
The rat fur sausage
Matthew Fite, the artist behind Rogue Wolf Taxidermy in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, started out collecting bird feathers and dead bugs as a kid. At 13 he found a diagram in a Boy Scout handbook showing how to process a squirrel. For Christmas he asked for souvenir gator feet instead of toys. Around 15, he tried his hand on a rat one of the family's outdoor cats had killed. It turned into a rat fur sausage, with no structure at all. His family took it in stride.
Today he works in anthropomorphic taxidermy, which means animals posed in human settings: rats in tuxedos, frogs, a Mardi Gras squirrel. Some pieces have acrylic denture teeth, human-looking and deliberately unsettling. Movies like The Texas Chainsaw Massacre have taught people to picture taxidermists as killers, and that drives him crazy. In his experience, most taxidermists are just a Bubba Ray good old boy who hunts and stuffs beer.
He doesn't hunt, and he doesn't kill anything. I'm a pure scavenger, he says. His rats are frozen feeders from the pet store, the kind usually fed to pythons, and many of his possums, raccoons and squirrels are roadkill gathered on Sunday morning drives. He once ran a stop sign with the front half of a stuffed beaver in the back of his car, and the officer got a kick out of it.
The man behind rats with human teeth and tiny tuxedos has never killed an animal. He's a pure scavenger working with roadkill and frozen feeder rats, and he does it because he loves living animals.
Only the skin
The word taxidermy basically means to move skin, and skin is all that stays. The eyes are fake, and the guts go away. His pet possum eats the leftover bodies, since possums need the calcium. Fite unzips the pelt from the muscle, soaks it in alcohol so the fur doesn't slip (fall away from the skin), and dries it with Borax, a laundry detergent that also keeps bugs away. He carves or molds a body out of polyurethane foam, stretches the skin over it like clothes on a mannequin, pins the face, and gives every rat his signature: a Mona Lisa smile. Then he waits about a week for it to dry.
Most of his clients are grieving pet owners, and with dogs he tries to steer them away from a full mount. Getting a dog's expression right, he says, is nearly as impossible as getting a person's, and if you miss it, that's not their dog. That's just a dog. He often suggests preserving the skeleton or a framed patch of fur they can still pet instead.
Wear your boots, kids
Not everyone keeps it that gentle. In late winter 2022, a 62-year-old Wisconsin man got frostbite in both feet after his heat went out. At his assisted living facility, one foot was blackened and hanging on by a tendon, and nurse Mary Kay Brown cut it off with scissors, without any doctor's order. Other nurses said she planned to preserve the foot in epoxy and display it by the cash register at her father's taxidermy shop, with a sign reading wear your boots kids. She was charged with abuse of an elderly person and mayhem. The man died a week later.
Fite would rather people remember the other side of taxidermy: the lighting-up starling he once filled with crystals, the animals preserved in something close to life. As he puts it, it's not so much a love for the dead animals. It's a love for the live ones.
