by Caroline Kaiser

Created on: September 20, 2008   Last Updated: November 25, 2008

Some people are possessed by the urgent need to possess. And few know more about collectors' obsessive-compulsive tendencies than antiques dealers and appraisers. When you're in a profession where you meet collectors on a daily basis, you realize the extent to which collecting can spiral out of control. A healthy desire to have a few well-chosen trinkets can quickly morph into a mad need to own every example - good or bad - you can possibly find of your tchotchke of choice. Discrimination flies out the window, and what started as a collection swells to become a hoard. You cross a line, leaving too much of your sanity behind, and become a different breed altogether: a hoarder.

During nearly 14 years as an antiques appraiser, I met my fair share of hoarders, most of whom bubbled over with enthusiasm for their activities. They were usually wholly unconscious of how disturbed they often appeared to non-hoarders. Most were bursting with pride in their collections and had the mistaken belief that everyone else shared their undying passion for nodding-head figurines, Titanic memorabilia, or in the case of one extraordinary client, taxidermy.

Allow me to relate a tale of a true hoarder, a woman I'll call Jenny. During a pleasant telephone conversation with Jenny, I made an appointment to see her Belleek porcelain collection. Since it numbered in the hundreds of pieces, a visit to her home in rural Ontario was necessary. Little did my colleague and I know what awaited us as we drove up to Jenny's house.

Jenny greeted us at the door with a chirpy "Do you like taxidermy?" before she even said hello.

Taken aback, I nonetheless managed to find my voice. "Er - I don't know. No one's ever asked me that before," I replied.

Then we entered Jenny's world. She took us on a tour of the house she shared with her elderly mother - a house dominated by the macabre presence of countless stuffed animals. From every available surface, they stared at us without blinking, frozen for all time. Even more unsettling than all those preserved animals was the fact that they were wearing clothes. In acts of misguided love, our client had sewn outfits for creatures that were clearly far beyond being able to appreciate her careful attentions to them.

"Look - here's Mother Goose!" Jenny enthused. We looked at the enormous white goose that stood on the mantelpiece. The bird was all gussied up in her Sunday best, wearing a cape and a matching bonnet.

I tried to find it within me to express some appreciation,

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