When I was a kid, we lived in northern Minnesota. My dad was an avid hunter (among other things), and would head up to Canada every fall to go duck-hunting.
I never got into the hunting scene myself (although I love to eat the results when cooked correctly), probably due to an incident with my brother.
One year, Dad came home with his take of the ducks from the hunt. Being somewhat cool out, he stored the ducks in the garage until it was time for him to pluck and butcher them. (Do you butcher ducks? It doesn’t sound quite right.) At any rate, there was a pile of ducks sitting there, and my brother and I were hanging out in the garage, when all of a sudden, he grabbed one of those mallards, shoved it at me, and squeezed it.
And damn if that dead duck didn’t quack right in my face. I’ve never been quite the same since then. Still like to eat duck, though.