I grew up in a house with a shared driveway downhill from my neighbor.
The blood would run down into my yard.
I’d have to get out a hose and rinse things down.
One October when I was four, my grandpa and grandma butchered a hog in the yard. Big steaming kettle of boiling water, washing and rinsing everything, then making the packaged meat for the freezer, the sausages, roasts, rendering the flaked lard, making lye soap the following month. They had ten children, who all helped at some point. I just watched, fascinated.
My husband used to hang deer to butcher them. When we moved onto our little farm, the neighbors laid a beautiful big fresh doe out behind our woodpile for a housewarming present (January) not exactly in season, but since we never had any idea who our benefactor was, no problem.