In the early 1990s my ex and I used to go to a little village in the Cotswolds for long weekends and holidays. We stayed in a B&B on a local farm. Bang opposite the house was a slaughterhouse, so while you were having breakfast you could watch the pigs one day trotting across the main road to the slaughterhouse, lambs the next, and so on. Some of the meat would be brought back to the farm and we'd have their meat or poultry for dinner. Some more would go into the local shop, which of course was owned by the farm, and others would go to local butchers. The lady of the house had a pet sheep - it was a lucky one that had escaped from the slaughterhouse and came home. When it died, it was buried in the field nearest the house.