Once when my family was staying at my great grandfather's old cabin, my grandparents decided to whip up some chili. The only problem was that the store was closed, it being a shitty little Pennsylvania town, so there was no way to get meat for the chili.
Luckily, my grandmother was able to scrounge up some cans of venison. Hand canned, actually, by my great grandfather before he died. He had been dead 10 years at that point. In case you're wondering, old canned venison tastes like mud and has about the same consistency.
On that same trip my uncle mercy-killed a rabbit that had just been run over, and then brought it back for dinner. It was pretty good, actually.