Poor dear

My husband phoned on his way home from work. "There are two Great Pyrenees in our driveway!"
Not Jasmine and a new friend, as he'd first thought, but a neighbor's dogs. They wagged their tails, but retreated across the ditch when we approached.
We were puzzled, until we spotted the dead deer lying in the water. We figured he'd been hit by a car on the highway, then wandered over onto our property to die. There was a cut near one knee, but otherwise no obvious injuries.
I thought we should try to keep the antlers. As it turned out, we didn't begin the boiling-the-excess-meat-off process (that the internet recommended) until two days later. In hindsight, I probably should have guessed that the process would best be suited to the outdoors at that point.
Oh, the stink. I am not completely sure that I'll ever get that stench out of my nose. It was revolting. Fetid. Malodorous.
I am unable to find a word that means, "my brain clings to that hideously repulsive odor like flypaper, and brings it back fresh (ugh) to memory every time I even think about a deer".