Like many do-it-yourselfers, I find myself turning to Youtube fairly often when I embark on a project, whether it’s replacing a solenoid in my freezer or butchering a deer. It doesn’t matter if the footage is grainy, the sound fuzzy, or the accent nearly incomprehensible: there’s something very reassuring about watching a complex task broken down into a series of doable steps.

Over the years, I’ve learned that there are two kinds of how-to videos: those designed to show you how to do the difficult thing yourself; and others meant to entertain you by watching an expert do it with absurd ease and confidence.

Call it the difference between education and entertainment.

Long-time viewers of PBS’s This Old House will know what I’m talking about. Twenty-five years ago, I loved that show. There was nothing better than tuning in and watching a team of experts tackle the restoration of a Victorian nightmare of a house. The issue was never, “How are we going to flash this intricate roof?” or “How are we going to deal with this crumbling foundation?” Instead, it was, “How are we going to break the bad news to the homeowner?”

The work itself was never in question. There was no challenge too great for the show’s Dream Team of contractors. You watched This Old House with the expectation that everything would work out in the end. That confidence was essential to the show, which was the equivalent of a police procedural: in the end, the mystery would be solved. Order would be restored.

Of course, when I started working on old houses myself, I learned that there’s a huge difference between watching and doing. As I scrubbed a newly grouted tile floor, my calf muscles cramping, my hair dripping with sweat, I thought, “This didn’t look so hard on TV!” At the end of a brutal session of stacking lumber, I thought, “Why didn’t they mention how much of construction is simply shifting incredibly heavy things from one place to another?” As I struggled to line up contractors, who seemed to see my projects as nothing more than minor inconveniences, I thought, “They never talk to Steve Thomas that way!”

And then, when I started working on other people’s houses, I realized that the show had set unrealistic expectations for my clients, as well. Why will the work take so long, they wondered? Why will it be so expensive?

The answer was simple: life is not like television.

Alfred Hitchcock once famously asked, “What is drama, but life with the dull bits cut out?” That’s the beauty of a montage, an editing technique that excises the dull bits, transforming a tedious, backbreaking task into a quick and pleasant time-lapse, complete with musical accompaniment.

Last week, as I contemplated the quartered deer cooling on my porch, I thought: I need to learn how to butcher this animal properly. I went to Youtube and typed, “how do I butcher a deer?”

The most popular video, with over 350,000 views, was “How to butcher a deer at home,” a slick, quasi-professional production by an Englishman named Scott Rea. In twenty-seven minutes, Mr. Rea butchered not one, but two little deer, showcasing his knife skills with exotic cuts like a “guard of honor,” which involves interlacing two expertly trimmed racks of ribs.

I was mesmerized by his skill and speed. I went so far as to start taking notes. But there came a moment when Mr. Rea said, “Okay, I’ll be back with you in five minutes,” and turned off the camera. That’s when I knew I was dealing with entertainment, not education.

So I kept searching.

I finally found what I was looking for in a shaky, noisy, unscripted series titled “How to Process Your Deer,” by an outfit called DeadOnHunting. The videos were less popular — fewer than 150,000 views — and somewhat rough around the edges. There were four separate episodes, adding up to nearly an hour of boning, cutting, and trimming by professional grocery store butchers who also happened to be avid hunters.

Yes, they were experts. Yes, their knives seemed to be magically sharp, their knowledge of anatomy superhuman, their speed astonishing.

But they showed everything, even the boring bits. They weren’t about showing off; their goal was simply to respect the animal by minimizing waste.

It took me a lot longer than an hour to butcher my little deer — a lot longer. It was a constant struggle to keep my knife sharp enough. I labored over the geometry of the infamous “H bones” and the shoulder bones.

It wasn’t anywhere near as easy as it looked on my screen. But at least I knew what I was getting into.