My Dad used to make me help him skin the rabbits and squirrels he shot while hunting.
We'd do it on the porch of our apartment which was over a grocery store and two stories high.
I'd have to hold their little heads while he pulled the skin off and cut off their feet.
Then he'd gut them and I couldn't let go of how soft and sweet their heads had felt in my hands.
I've never eaten rabbit or squirrel in my life.
And never will.
But I remember how high that porch was off the ground and my cousin, Marlin getting outside it and walking around, holding on to the bannisters.
That was terrifying.
But not as terrifying and holding those little heads in my hand while my father skinned them.