05/06/2025
If you want a neatly kept house, fancy food on the table, or a beautifully turned out woman with nicely manicured nails, on your arm, I am not her.
If you want sweet and docile, good smelling, able to host a fancy party, and decorate the house, with plenty of throw pillows on the bed, I am not her.
The rules and requirements of domesticity are beyond me. I can cook and will clean. Enough to get by.
If you want a hand, someone working beside you to get the job done, no matter the weather or difficulty, I will be there to do my best.
If you want someone who can pull a calf and is willing to take the night check, I’ll do that.
Someone who will enjoy being out in the crisp night air, who stares up at the sky in wonder at the stars shining over head and with just as much amazement watches the new born calf struggle to take that first step, I’ll take that shift.
If you want someone who would rather be outside, getting her hands dirty. Hands that never will take any sort of manicure and quickly destroy any attempt at nail polish, I can do that.
I am feral. I want to be free, to be outside, to work with my hands and the muscles of my back. To battle against nature with all the cruel twists she likes to throw at us as we attempt to farm and raise livestock.
I take joy in feeling the heat of battle as I fight to save a new born calf or walk into the teeth of the blizzard to make sure my cattle are as warm and comfortable as I am not.
I will never be domesticated. My house will never be spotless. My food will be prepared with hands freshly washed and still carrying some traces of the dirt left from the work I’ve been doing. I carry the perfume of the horses, cattle, and garden when I finish my work, good earthy smells.
I am feral. I am woman. I will never be a domestic house wife.