[The Old Groaner] Of Willie Nelson, Lord Montagu and a cat divided

And are things any different in Turkey? Well, different but comparable. During this last week, we came across a convoy of jeeps all bearing tourists on an adventure (sic). They were parked at the side of the road, admiring a recently killed snake which was bravely being held up by its tail at arm's length by the “safari” leader, who was dressed a little like Willie Nelson. Willie's face bore a huge grin and his followers were either grinning or grimacing, not entirely depending on their gender. The kids, following unwritten kid rules, were metamorphosing themselves into snakes and were poisoning or constricting each other. At the back of the convoy, two chaps with nice shirts and a certain style of neat short hair hugged each other for comfort. I drove by uttering disgust at the whole scene whilst Frau leaned out of the window screaming her native tongue obscenities at the hapless clots.

I know people who have parts of dead animals on display in their houses. In some circles, to have the head of a dead deer mounted on a wall of one's lounge seems perfectly acceptable; I would be very surprised if Lord Montagu of Beaulieu is without several such reminders of his ancestor's prowess with a gun decorating his mansion. Here, in or near our valley in Turkey, the trophies tend to be rather smaller. Goat skulls are common, and tortoise shells perhaps more so. We do have a few wild horses and donkeys around, but then again, you will never see a stuffed donkey's head over Lord Montagu's fireplace. I wonder why?

Now, taxidermists seem to be rather thin on the ground in Turkey, and I have an idea that there is rather more to stuffing a dead animal than simply emptying the skin of meat and stuffing it with old newspapers, socks and underwear. Were it that simple then I'm sure I would have seen the occasional stuffed boar head around here, if not in a house then in one of the expat bars.

We actually did have a taxidermist living here a few years ago. Let us call him Deniz. Deniz had learnt and practiced his trade in the US, where I am sure he was very busy. In Turkey, he had diversified into selling silver and tattooing whilst distributing, entirely free, the most amazing tall stories. His tall stories were skyscrapers amongst my bungalows and chalets. His much younger wife seemed tolerant of his many young female, and sometimes live-in, friends, and his Buffalo Bill beard and hair made him a most memorable personality. I will describe him no further because he is still alive and living on this coast. If you meet him, be sure to say hello.

One day, Deniz's cat died. I think it was killed on the road outside their house, and of course, they were very upset. So fond were they of poor Tiddles that it was decided that Deniz would stuff her and she would stand proud on the sideboard, loved forever.

We first heard of the passing of Tiddles the day after the event, by which time she was in the fridge awaiting the attention of Deniz. We refrained from visiting Deniz for a week or two for fear that we would be offered cold drinks or (shudder) even a snack. Eventually, we heard the story of the final days of Tiddles from the man himself.

Sparing our sensitivity only a little, Deniz explained how he had removed the entire insides of the cat from its ginger outside and had returned the pelt to the fridge to await the delivery of certain essential chemicals from America. Not wanting to waste perfectly good meat, the insides of Tiddles were offered as a special treat on a fancy plate, to Kurt, their much-loved dog. Kurt did not much like the look or perhaps the smell of the mess placed before him and declined the offer. That very much impressed Deniz, who credited Kurt with the sensitivity of refusing his dinner for sentimental reasons. Kurt, you see, had loved that cat. Quote: “He knew! I swear, that dog knew!”

I saw one or two tourist girls shed tears at that yarn whilst Frau and I suppressed our hilarity until we were home when we also shed tears.

Deniz and his wife thought it would be callous to simply dump the redundant half of Tiddles in the bin, so a funeral was arranged. It was a private affair in the field behind their house. We were told that the inside of the cat was solemnly borne to the graveside in a shoe box. Deniz uttered a brief eulogy, summarizing the virtues of the dear departed, and after a brief prayer, approximately half of Tiddles was lowered into the ground. Ashes to ashes; dust to dust. May she rest in peace et cetera, et cetera.

We actually never saw the outer portion of Tiddles. Deniz and his harem left the valley a month or so after the funeral, and I suppose the fur went with them. The people of Dalyan would know.