"American Stuffers" Family - Warm Hearts and Freeze-Dried Pets - NYTimes.com THE most wholesome reality show on television right now may be "American Stuffers," an Animal Planet production that documents the growing pains of a family of taxidermists whose specialty is freeze-drying pets. Its G-rated quality stands out in the vulgar context in which the show finds itself, which is to say, the Snookified universe of reality TV. That it succeeds in being as entertaining as less-wholesome shows is a testament to the wry good humor and general niceness of its subjects, Daniel and LaDawn Ross, who are raising three energetic sons, Hunter, 14, Mason, 12, and Christian, 10, and acting in loco parentis to Mr. Ross's three young employees at Xtreme Taxidermy, certainly one of the odder home-based businesses. It helps the clean factor that the Rosses are Mormons, which means they don't swear or drink anything stronger than Mountain Dew, and so the show unfolds unattended by the usual censor's beeps. Also, while taxidermy is merely fascinating, pet preservation, as the practice of memorializing pets by freeze-drying them is more delicately described, makes for truly riveting television. What a narrative: there are the grieving owners, invariably in tears; the stricken animal (frozen, not in the rictus of death, but in actuality, as Mr. Ross asks that deceased pets be kept chilled until they are brought to him); and the epic life story of each pet (like Chatters, the 40-pound raccoon, who gnawed cabinetry and snuggled in bed, or Sam, the bad-tempered Chihuahua, who ate toenail clippings). Then, months later, because freeze drying takes time (up to six months for large animals like dogs, though the show telescopes that process into minutes), there is the spectacular reveal, as Mr. Ross, a former auto body specialist, presents his deft handiwork: the pet, revivified. Well, almost. "Freeze-drying love," as the show's teaser promises. One pet at a time. And Mr. Ross, who projects a dimpled charisma, displays real artistry. In the first episode, as he works on the beloved canine companion of Teach, a soulful mustachioed fellow, touching up the dog's buff fur and grizzled muzzle with spray paint, Dixie, an intern, observes, "Just like a spray tan." Mr. Ross's work is mostly well received (a gush of tears, hugs all around), though when Teach arrives to pick up the dog, there is a moment of awkwardness. "I thought her eyes were going to be closed," says Teach, who bursts into tears. Still, he drives off happily, with his pet strapped to the back of his motorcycle. While viewers ponder the depths of the human heart, Dixie suggests that her boss is the van Gogh of animals. Last Friday, the Ross house was full of family. Ms. Ross's mother and stepfather, her brother and his two children had been visiting for the show's premiere party the night before. Two thirds of Mr. Ross's staff members were also there: Dixie, the intern, and a laconic young man named Fred. Everyone was spread out in the living room, below a thunderous array of taxidermy. "The wall of fame," Mr. Ross called it, somewhat inaccurately, as nearly every wall in the room and all the flat surfaces sported something reanimated or mounted. There were wild turkeys with resplendent plumage; noble-looking deer; glossy, writhing fish; toothy wild hogs, and an enormous black bear. "Daniel wanted to put pants on him," Ms. Ross said, rolling her eyes. But I put my foot down. Welcome to my world. The house, white clapboard with a green steel roof, sits on a hill above State Highway 5, not quite an hour's drive north of Little Rock. Romance, an unincorporated community of over 1,700, enjoys a flutter of publicity every Valentine's Day, when lovers and the affianced make pilgrimages to its tiny post office (there's nothing like a wedding invitation with that postmark). Xtreme Taxidermy is in an outbuilding in the front yard. "Bring us your dead," a sign read temptingly. In a pen, a gray wolf paced, her gait fluid and lovely (she'll eat the chickens if she's not watched, Mr. Ross said). A tiny Pomeranian bounced expectantly, and a hubcap size tortoise, a Christmas present to Ms. Ross from her husband, lumbered with surprising speed over the rutted earth. There were hanks of fur and hide everywhere, and skulls were drying on the storm cellar (Romance is in tornado country). The Rosses" oldest son, Hunter, lay flat on the ground, squinting into the sight of a Remington .243 rifle, lining up a paper target 100 or so yards away. Hunter, who is well named, is irritated when his brothers, no slouches in the hunting department, don't share his unflagging energy for the sport. His room is painstakingly decorated with animal parts, trophies and rifles, and swagged with a hunter's camouflage flannel. It is maybe the best boy's room you will ever see.