Gaping red paint mouths of taxidermied animals glimmer in the dim light of an old office building gone wrong. The small bowlegged man who unlocked the museum joins me and motions to stroke furs hanging from the low ceiling. Between touching pelts, I look at dusty dioramas as he makes dramatic rifle shooting gestures at stags, wolves and vultures stuffed in kill positions. If he was my father, I would get great weapons for my birthday. His leathery hand grasps mine and leads me along a dark corridor straight out of a 50s horror film. We enter a dramatic room filled with a herd of dead goats clambering over rocks splattered with white paint simulating bird crap. He grins.