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cadaver and decided that Rory’s tiny spirit should live on in the most disturbingly joyous way possible.

    ( Courtesy of Jeremy Johnson )
    Rory the Dead Raccoon stood up on his hind legs, his arms stretched out in glee. He looked like he was the most excited member of your surprise party, or like a Time Lord in the process of regenerating.
    His bafflingly enormous smile caused people to giggle (usually nervously and somewhat involuntarily) whenever I presented him. Or sometimes they’d scream and back away. I guess it depends on if you’re expecting an unnaturally cheerful dead raccoon to pop out at you.
    Victor didn’t entirely understand my love for Rory, but he couldn’t disagree that Rory was probably the best raccoon corpse that anyone had ever loved. Rory’s tiny arms perpetually reached out as if to say, “OHMYGOD, YOU ARE MY FAVORITE. PERSON. EVER. PLEASE LET ME CHEW YOUR FACE OFF WITH MY LOVE. ” Whenever I’d accomplished a particularly impossible goal (like remembering to refill my ADD meds even though I have ADD and was out of ADD meds) Rory was always there, eternally offering supportive high fives because he understood the value of celebrating the small victories. Victor might have refused to congratulate me on the fact that I hadn’t fallen down a well that week, but that dead raccoon always had my back and very few people can say that.
    â€œVery few people would want to say that,” Victor corrected.
    â€œIt’s just nice to have unconditional encouragement and praise,” I explained to him. “ Some people get all stingy with their high fives, but Rory never leaves me hanging.” In fact, it was physically impossible for Rory to leave me hanging and I momentarily considered having Victor one day taxidermied in the same happy, congratulatory pose, but then I realized that no one would recognize him and he’d probably just look sarcastic, like he was only offering me high fives when I slipped on things that weren’t there, or when the electricity was cut off because I forgot to pay it again.
    Victor thinks taxidermy is a waste of money, claiming that “there are only so many things you can do with a dead raccoon.” But I have proven him wrong time and time again. Victor pointed out that what he’d actually said was “There are only so many things you should do with a dead raccoon,” and honestly that does sound more like something he’d say, but I still disagree.
    When Victor was making Skype calls for work, I’d silently crawl up behind him and have Rory slowly and menacingly rise up over Victor’s shoulder until the person on the call froze because they noticed a mentally unbalanced raccoon was leaning in like a furry, eavesdropping serial killer. Then Victor would realize Rory was behind him and he’d sigh that sigh he does so well and remind himself to lock his office door. If anything, though, Victor should have thanked me, because the perfect test to see if your friends and coworkers really have your back is if they’re willing to say, “Hey, there’s a raccoon creeping on you.” It’s like the “Is-my-fly-down?” test, but times one thousand, because almost anyone can relate enough to clear their throat and raise an eyebrow at your junk until you realize you forgot to zip, but it takes a really concerned badass to interrupt a conference call and say, “WATCH OUT FOR THAT MOTHERFUCKING RACCOON, DUDE.” To their credit, most of Victor’s callers would mention something and I’d point out that they’d passed the test and then Rory would be like, “JAZZ HANDS!” Then Victor would lock us both out and I’d stick Rory’s paw under his office door and say in a small raccoony voice, “I’m trying to help you. Let me help you.”
    When the mailman dropped off packages I’d open the door a few inches and have Rory peek outside. “