My memory doesn't separate any of the stories, but I have been assured that there were three different occasions, so for now, you only get to hear one of them-- you would have thought that they would have learned to stop taking me up into the damned mountains though.
This story, in particular, occurred on the first trip we made. While driving happily along, as we made our ascent up the mountain, I called out to my parents, begging them to pull over and stop the car. Watching out the window, I had seen a very fluffy rabbit on the side of the road that I desperately wanted as a pet. They very kindly and patiently explained to me that the bunny wasn't sleeping. The very bloated bunny was, in fact, very dead, which meant I really didn't want it.
"But, I want a dead bunny for a pet!" I told them eagerly.
"Why?" They asked with concern.
"Because I can hug it and it won't run away!"
Which makes some sort of sense, I guess, but is a little morbid for a 4 year old. I suppose I didn't quite grasp the concept of decomposition.
Thankfully, they did not allow me to have the dead bunny, but they did get me a rabbit pelt, which was probably the safest alternative to keep me from becoming a serial killer.