Most of us involved in agriculture are very concerned about pending legislation that would tax livestock producers based on “methane emissions” by their animals. Essentially, this would force most of us out of the business because our cattle burp and… well… expel “gaseous” matter out the other end. I always suspected the government would find a way to tax our very existence and it appears this might be the way. I admit that I’ve been overly concerned with this prospect for some time, but events of last week have left me even more paranoid about my own personal future.
My wife has a small business in town that provides temporary nurses to hospitals in the surrounding area. Because these facilities often need fill-ins any time of the day or night, Judy has been the “on-call” person every weekend and night for the past several months – meaning that whenever the office is not open, the phone automatically transfers to her cellular to handle needs. As a result, we can almost be assured of receiving four or five calls during our normal sleeping hours. Normally, the calls wake me too, but because she’s the one that has to talk to them, I can quickly return to sleep.
On Tuesday of last week, I injured my arm trying to escape from a very angry young bull that I was trying to medicate. I ended up rupturing my bicep (ironic that most of these injuries occur to weightlifters trying to heave too much weight while I was simply trying to lift my fat butt upon the top rail of the corral) and was in considerable pain. In order to stifle the pain enough to sleep, I had taken some prescription pain medicine that knocked me out like I had been trying to do to the young bull.
On that very night, right on schedule, Judy’s phone rang at 4 a.m. It was a local hospital needing a nurse for the morning shift. (Since I was under the influence of medication, the rest of this story is my wife’s account of the situation, and I just want everyone to know that she, unlike me, tends to exaggerate things beyond what really happened.) She swears, however, that while she was on the phone, trying to understand what kind of nurse they needed, I started… well… "emitting methane gas” in large quantities with surround-sound volume that made her conversation with the hospital inaudible.
“Excuse me, Ma’am, but there seems to be some static on the phone,” my wife supposedly stated, “Could you repeat that, please?” At that point, she said she hit me with the back of her hand. The nurse on the other end began her request anew. I, evidently, did not arouse from my slumber.
As Judy tried to decipher what the message was from the hospital, I rolled over in bed and started Act II with an even higher decibel level. Judy apologized for the “problems with the phone” and promised to call her back immediately. After she hung up, she awoke me with such voracity that it would have awoken me from a coma, and the language…. believe me, it would have embarrassed most sailors. “JERRY, WAKE UP! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE BEEN DOING WHILE I’M TRYING TO DO BUSINESS HERE?” I vaguely remember that part, but had no idea why I was being talked to so rudely at 4 a.m. The next morning, she explained in great and graphic detail, the embarrassment that I had caused.
So, while I’m still concerned about the government legislating me out of the cattle business, I’m just as worried that they’ll want, at some time, to tax people on their emissions as well. And, if my wife’s account of that recent night is true, we’ll have to sell everything we own just pay the taxes on ME! On the other hand, if we could just harness my emissions and use them in one of those new, “green” cars, I could be looking at getting 50 or 60 miles per gallon.
Jerry Crownover farms in Lawrence County. He is a former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University, and is an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry, go to www.ozarksfn.com and click on 'Contact Us.'
