For a handful of Canadian hunters, it was not enough to craft trophies from the bodies of their prey. A particular sporting lodge in Newfoundland developed a technique of stuffing animal skins with wooden bones and glass organs, allowing them to return to the wild. The primary agent of reanimation was an artificial blood formulated from, among other things, blackberry syrup, gunpowder, and crushed fireflies.
These mechanical creatures returned to the forest as pariahs, unrecognized by their own species. It is unclear if they identified with their own pelts, or if they simply thought of them as clothing. Whether or not they were truly the same animals at all after taxidermy was a question none could definitively answer, but the difference in behavior was clear to any observer. Their legs bent in strange directions, and their heads only ever seemed to face in one direction.
For the hunters who commissioned them, such trophies did not serve as static mantlepieces reminding them of their triumph over nature, but offered each one a chance to relive it repeatedly. They returned to the forest whenever nostalgia struck, tracked down the shambling automatons that they left behind, and gunned them down once more. Their fragile guts shattered easily, producing a satisfying burst of purple ooze when the bullet made impact. It was never quite the same as the first time, but it was far more thrilling than memory alone.
Those that could afford to do so had their favorite trophies rebuilt again and again. Eventually, skins and furs became entirely worthless, for how many glass hearts a man had shattered spoke far more to his wealth.