Weirdly, I have a long history with this sort of thing. My mom did a memorable post-college stint in a food science lab, one of the many reasons she eventually became an English prof. In middle school, I watched my English teacher, who owned a large farm, kill a chicken for us to eat; my “alternative” school’s one sex ed class, which consisted of one session, was inspired by one of us sixth graders finding a tool on her farm used to castrate bulls.
In my college days, after helping cut freshly slaughtered cows lengthwise (not easy), I would drive the stomachs from the killing floor in a backhoe to a “dead animal dump,” which is about as foul a thing as you can imagine.
So I’m not especially shocked or amused–hell, in aerial wolf-hunting country, this is probably just playing to the base. On the other hand, I can’t be the only person having Fargo flashbacks.