When I was maybe 6 years old, I saw a cow being slaughtered on our neighbour’s farm. There was so much blood on the snow. Her legs, entrails and head were cut off and left for the farm dogs.

I saw the severed head and I just needed to have it. I waited for people to leave and came back with my little sledge. I managed to roll the bloody head on the sledge. I pulled it to my hideout play cabin in the woods. It was a struggle; I was puny, the head was really heavy, and the snow was deep.

But I got it. And I loved it. My parents were a bit grossed out but they let me keep it eventually. In the spring my father helped to clean the skull. It became my treasure. I named my play cabin “The Skull Fortress” and mounted the skull over the door.

In the coming years, we had many fights with my mom about not letting me take home the rotten carcasses we stumbled upon on our nature trips. I am still devastated not getting the seal skull we found on the shore of the Arctic Sea. Oh, and that beautiful, mummified cat! What a waste to leave such treasures behind!

Despite these attempts of censorship (and maintaining hygiene), I managed to grow my collection of skulls and bones. I played happily in the rotten smell of the Skull Fortress for many years, being watched over by the hollow eyes of the dead animals.