Stuffed, stitched and good as new?

Taxidermy seems to be enjoying a renaissance of sorts. But it can't capture the personality of a much-loved pet, writes Fionola Meredith.

Last August, when Brian Kelly felt a sickening crunch as he reversed out of his garage, he knew he had run over one of his cats, 12-year-old Bandit. Surrounded by his tearful family, distraught at the loss of their beloved pet, Kelly was desperate to make amends. That's when the idea of getting Bandit stuffed first came to mind.

"He was such an important part of the family," says Kelly, from Newtownards in Co Down, "and, with the possibility of us moving house soon, it didn't seem fair to just bury him in the garden. But people did think I was mad to get him stuffed."

Realising that prompt action was necessary, Kelly immediately enlisted the services of a local taxidermist, who advised him to wrap the cat's body in a binliner and put it in the freezer. The next day, the family brought Bandit's remains - and a selection of photographs of the distinctive one-eyed white and grey cat - to the taxidermist's workshop. It wasn't a cheap option: the procedure cost £340 (€525). But four months later, in December 2006, Bandit was back, immortalised in one of his habitual positions - stretched out with his white front paws tucked neatly in front of him.

Although it was recognisably Bandit, the family couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed. Kelly says, "He looked like he'd had a face-lift; he was only a resemblance of what he had been. Pets have individual personalities, and I guess that's difficult to capture."

It wasn't just the human members of the family who had their reservations either - the other two cats left the room as soon as they caught sight of the chemically-restored corpse.

It's the impossible challenge of bringing a much-loved animal back to life that puts many taxidermists off stuffing (or modelling, to use the preferred term) a family cat or dog. Peter Gregory, from Gorey in Co Wicklow, is one of the few registered taxidermists in Ireland who are willing to stuff pets.

Gregory, who has been practising for more than 20 years, says, "All you have to go on are photographs, but pet owners are used to seeing the animal every day of the week, jumping up when they come in. It's hard to model that attitude."

While many people enjoy the macabre charms of the Natural History Museum in Dublin, with its ranks of perfectly preserved insects, birds and beasts, for most the thought of a stuffed creature in their home - let alone a pet - is a step too far.

Others feel squeamish about the mysterious art of taxidermy itself. What does the modelling procedure involve? "It's not all blood and guts," says Gregory. "The animal's skin must be surgically removed with a scalpel, then the skin is preserved in a tanning solution."

A cast made from the animal's body is sent off to a taxidermy supplies service, where a form is created from fibre-glass or foam. Then the skin is ready to go back on - the fiddly part where the taxidermist's skill really comes to the fore. (The term taxidermy comes from the Greek word "to arrange the skin".) A thorough shampoo and blow-dry later, and the specimen is ready for display.

Taxidermy has been in the doldrums for years. It has long been seen as a rather cruel and tasteless throwback to the Victorians' fanatical obsession with death. But lately taxidermy has been enjoying something of a renaissance. Jaded by minimalist aesthetics, artists and designers are eager to embrace the gruesome beauty of the corpse as art.

Model Kate Moss recently shelled out several thousand pounds for a dead bluetit on a prayer book by the London-based artist Polly Morgan. And Norfolk taxidermist Emily Mayer, whose clients include chef Marco Pierre White and artist Damien Hirst, has made a name for herself with items like her "piglet handbag". The tender-hearted Mayer, who also stuffs pets - for a price - has acknowledged that wielding a scalpel on a beloved cat or dog can feel "like cutting your mother up".

Philip Napier, acting head of sculpture at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin, believes that our attitude to taxidermy is all caught up with anxieties about mortality. The proud owner of two stuffed magpies and the head of a red setter dog, which he uses in lectures as a teaching aid, Napier says, "The Victorians' relationship with mortal things was very different: death was around them at all stages of life. It was much more a public matter than a private matter. But these days we are far removed from that viscerality. When I pass the dog head around, many students don't want to touch it."

It seems that taxidermy invokes fascination and revulsion in equal measure. But for those who can overcome their squeamishness, it does offer the opportunity to keep a much-loved pet by your side forever.