Road kills

Every time I drive past a dead animal on the street, my first instinct is to stop and take it home. I wanna do something with it. Maybe take it apart and look inside.
When I was younger, my mother once hit something with her car while I was sitting in the backseat. It wasn‘t big, probably a weasel or something.
I wasn‘t sad, not disturbed or anything. But I still remember it. The slight jerking of the car, the feeling of bones crunching under a wheel, my mother‘s sad expression after the realization of what had just happened. I remember pretending to be upset.
I feel extremely lucky whenever I pass a road kill that has its guts spilling out of its body. The more gruesome, the better. It‘s like finding a four-leafed clover.