The last time I had a deer processed was in 1993. I took him to a reputable butcher in Greenbank, WV, to be cut up, wrapped and stored frozen. When my hunt was over and I went to pick up the meat, I got a small box back. I put it in the trunk, and picked at it morosely. Then I went back in and asked where the back end was. It was in the freezer, an honest mistake, it seems. It happens.
I then bought a book and learned how to do the job myself, boning instead of sawing, and the meat has gotten a whole lot better. It is convenient to hand the whole mess to someone else, and then go back to retrieve it just like supermarket groceries. I don't feel as connected that way, though, and am always bothered by that niggling little doubt about what got saved and what got left on the bones.
The butchering done in camp is a celebration. There are scraps of backstraps, either eaten raw or roasted over the fire. Inedible bits go to the fire, and turn to a fragrant smoke as the fat sizzles. I feed the spirits in that place. The bones are walked into the woods away from camp for the birds and other scavengers to pick, and so that they can return from whence they came. The dog, if there, will expectantly wait for her scraps, too, and hone her game of catch. The meat is then wrapped and labeled, save the parts that will become camp fare. I only have ice in the coolers and the weather to keep the meat properly cooled, so I finagle this until I can send it home with my husband on the weekend.
It is a lot of work, and the time must be allotted to it instead of heading straight back out after another critter, but it is worth it to me.
Killdeer