In his youth my grandfather was a hunter (we called him Papa, like Hemingway) and while I only saw him rarely, I remember from childhood visits a zebra rug, presumably a trophy. Though it made me sad I still loved being near it. When I was old enough to understand chic i knew it was the most chic thing I had ever laid my hands on. I remember sitting on it and stroking the short spiky mane and wishing the zebra was still alive but also still beneath me. If I’d had to choose between the two? Alive, of course, always. Here’s to living with wild things (and a cow).
Photography: Tony Farfalla