You stuff some squirrels in your spare time. Your Aunt Pearl trusts you with the everlasting life of her deceased Chihuahua, Pepe.
You stuff squirrels and you create a full, life-sized bear posed on its hind legs with teeth and claws bared. Your kids never ask for raises on their allowance and Girl Scouts skip your house during cookie season.
Local hunters keep you busy year-round. You grow a reputation as a talented craftsman and you gradually charge more for your work. You spend a couple of weeks a year at conventions and seminars, boning up on the latest techniques.
When hunters bag the big game, they come to you. When they don't, they wish they could. Your workshops are booked a year in advance and your name is now a respected brand in the world of taxidermy. Your customers are happy to pay over $500 per mount and wait up to two years for you to finish.
You have a full-sized shop. You sell supplies, run workshops, host competitions, and have a dozen employees. Your name has been in newspapers and magazines and you've even begun consulting for international wildlife museums. You give generously to polar bear conservation efforts, but you are the official taxidermist chosen to preserve the sole surviving bear for eternity, should the species become extinct.