If it's Dead, Matt Likes it

I have two little dogs, both miniature pinschers. Tassie is 19 pounds and doesn't look much like the standard. Ava is 12 pounds and although a little chubby, competes with the best examples of the breed; her lineage is almost all champions. She has crooked teeth, which is a fault in the showbiz world, so she is my pet.

I've had Tassie six years since she was a puppy. She's one of the best dogs I've ever owned, and since I'm home most of the day, she's right by my side and I'm very attached to her. John and I travel several times a year and I can't take her along. It's always a worry how to keep her happy while I'm gone. I've hired house-sitters, a few different kennels... but I'd notice she was thin when I returned home. She was so unhappy she wasn't eating well.

What if I got a dog for Tassie? She'd have a friend and she would not be alone when I kennel her.

I found Ava on Craigslist. She was offered by a small but very serious kennel in Monroe. Salina Bailey breeds champions. The top miniature pinscher in the country, Marlex Mr. Chips, came from her kennel and is half-brother to this pup. Salina said she thought the puppy would get along well with us, and let me take her home on approval.

The dogs are very compatible.

Miniature pinschers were bred to be house dogs whose job it was to kill rats and mice. Like most dogs kept as pets, their original purpose seems to become "forgotten" through generations of dogs bred just for companionship. They've got it pretty soft.

We have an acre or so of lawn, and our property includes meadow and woods that surround our civilized claim. Small creatures may attempt to inhabit the crawlspace, the attic or the eves, but John and the cats are experts at defending the domicile from things that creep and crawl.

Except for the lawn. Those small mounds of dirt, several feet apart, were a constant aggravation.

John has tried every strategy put down in print, televised or discussed at backyard barbecues among the most manly of homeowners. Traps, water hoses, poisonous bait... none of them worked. The object of John's military ambition lived under the paved walkway between the roses and the lawn. Only working at night, the mole would leave at least one fresh mound of dirt every morning for John to kick at in defeat and disgust.

One afternoon, Ava escaped the leash and zoomed off in a red flash.

Around the house I chased her, twice around... where is she? There she was, under the rose bush, digging furiously. I got to her just in time to see her grab something small in her mouth, give it several quick shakes, then drop it on the ground. She wagged her tail at me.

Dead mole.

Now what do I do? John would want to see this. My folks would want to see this. I wanted the whole world to see this!

I picked up Ava and put her in the house. I got a zip lock bag from the kitchen and took it outside. Picking the dead creature up by the tail, I sealed it up in the bag, stuck it in the freezer, and went (where else?) to the Yellow Pages: "Taxidermy"

I called the local guy who I know. Jeff preserves big game for local hunters. He's stuffed deer and bears and game birds, but he's also mounted zebras, lions and other wonderful exotics.

He said no. He said, "Hell, no. I can't stuff a mole. Even if I could find a form for it, my friends would laugh their asses off at me. Nobody stuffs moles!"

I expanded my search to Skagit County. No, No, and No. I found a shop called Whidbey Island Taxidermy and dialed the number. An answering machine said Matt would call me back after 6 p.m. if I left my name and number.

"Matt, my name is Denise and I'm hoping you'll listen to this whole message before you laugh and hang up. This is really a point of pride. My little dog just killed a mole that had been tormenting my husband for over a year. It's a nice clean kill, and her very first. It's a big deal and I'd like to make a trophy of it."

Matt did call me back, soon after 6. He was laughing when I said hello.

"Sure, I can do a mounting of a mole for you." He explained that he's preserved all kinds of rodents, birds, and skeletons for the University of Washington. The freezer was the right place for the corpse until I could bring it to him the next day around 4:00 p.m. I got directions.

Matt Klope lives about fifteen minutes outside Oak Harbor. He has a couple of acres with a house and a shop. Taxidermy is not his career, but his hobby.

Inside his shop are preserved ducks, deer, moose, and things you might expect to see. There were also wild cats, bears, a coyote, a wolf and several prone skeltons eight feet and longer.

"I preserve seal lion and whale skeltons," said Matt. He showed me large tubs of stinky black water behind the shed. "The meat rots off, then I bleach the bones and assemble them."

Nice. He performs necropsies of stranded marine animals, too, as a member of Central Puget Sound Marine Mammal Stranding Network. He has a wealth of knowlege about just about anything that crawls, swims, or flies.

Matt's real job involves the science of bird strike studies. He contracts with the US Navy to keep their aircraft safe from birds. You can read about BASH here: http://www.safetycenter.navy.mil/media/approach/issues/marapr08/bash.htm I was amazed to hear they use radar to warn of incoming flocks, and specifically plant the acreage around the runways with foilage birds aren't interested in. Sometimes they use trained falcons to repel flocking birds.

Matt beheld the creature in the ziplock bag and said it was a Townsend's Mole, Scapanus townsendii. "Good dog. Nice clean break at the neck." He said he'd see what he could do to make it look fierce.

Ava's trophy sits in it's place of honor on the fireplace mantel. When we show it off, she knows it's hers. She struts proudly around it until it's returned to it's special place.

Doesn't that mole look fierce? Good dog.