The Life of a Hollywood Assistant, or Taxidermy to the Stars

After a couple of seconds I managed to stammer out, “You’re kidding.”

“He said that he feels like he has a rapport with you over Puppy Wuppy.”

“I don’t remember this being in my job description,” I said.

“You obviously didn’t read the fine print.”

I watched Al as he turned to walk away and said to him, “It’s one thing to be the bearer of bad news. It’s another thing to be the bearer of a dead stuffed dog.”

Ben Stein had a shorthaired pointer, named Puppy Wuppy, who appeared in his talk show Turn Ben Stein On. About a week after the Comedy Central talk show aired, Puppy Wuppy was hit by a car and killed. Ben Stein took her to the taxidermist to get her stuffed.

When I approached the taxidermy store, I thought I had the wrong address. This store fronted on Hollywood Boulevard, and its sign read “We sell guns and knives”. It was sandwiched between a sex shop and a psychic, and had a pink celebrity star as a sidewalk doormat.

I was greeted by the manager who led me up to a small workshop on the second floor. I passed semi-automatics and switchblades in the hallway, and as I entered the workshop I was met by deer heads, cobra skins, armadillos, and every other animal imaginable — all staring back at me with eerie glass eyes.

The manager’s name was Hani Haddid and he proudly boasted that he was the premiere taxidermist for the Shah of Iran before moving to Hollywood California. He was from a long line of taxidermists and took his job very seriously.

Hani lifted up the body bag revealing the stuffed Puppy Wuppy. He petted her head.

“She looks real nice, huh?”

“Yeah, right,” I said quickly covering her back up again.

He helped me carry her out to the car. I pushed the front seat backwards as he put the dead dog on the seat. Careful of her head, he fastened the seatbelt around Puppy Wuppy.

“Have a nice day,” Hani said as I struggled to regulate my breathing. “And tell Ben I said hi.”

I got in my car, trying to ignore the fact that a dead stuffed dog wrapped in plastic was sitting on the passenger side of my car.
I tried to put the car in reverse but the dog blocked the shift. I tried to push her, but she wouldn’t move.

I opened all the windows. Finally, I started breathing. I tried to shift again. It worked.

I drove back to the studio, and then had to carry the dead stuffed dog across the lot, into the building and up two flights of stairs. One of the stiff paws kept on sticking straight out of the bag. People grimaced and moaned as I walked by, carrying the body bag as if it were a baby. It was really heavy.

No one would open doors for me. They all just watched. I had to balance Puppy Wuppy on one leg, and open the door with my free hand. I kept hitting the dead dog against the doorframe as I tried to walk through.

When I finally got to the office, I had to restrain myself from not throwing the awful, unnatural object on the floor. When I was finally free of it, I realized I was shaking uncontrollably. I ran into the bathroom and broke into a sob.

Why was I crying? Why did I have such a violent reaction to this somewhat humorous, but mainly just bizarre errand?

Maybe it was the closest I’ve ever gotten to death. Maybe it was the fumes on the chemical ridden hide that was once a part of a living creature. Maybe I realized that as a human, I was prone to caring for something so much that I wouldn’t be able to let it go at any cost.

Maybe I was getting my period.

***

Al lifted up the bag and peered into Puppy Wuppy’s glass eyes. His gaze remained attached to her as he circled around her.

His head tilted as he looked up at me with moist eyes. “Her head is a little big, but so is Steven Segal’s.”

I looked down at Puppy Wuppy. Her head was a little too big.

Al continued, “If they stuffed Hubert Humphrey as well as Puppy Wuppy, he could have run for President in ’72.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about this,” I said motioning to the dead dog that was already beginning to collect dust.

Al covered Puppy Wuppy with the bag again. He shook his head as he added, “Humphrey dead is more animated than John Kerry alive.”