Andrew Miller: The extenuating circumstances that reaffirmed to me the importance of pets

The cats sabotaged my stumbling predawn departure, one of them rubbing against my feet as I tried to put on my socks, the other sitting on my backpack.

“You clowns are no help at all,” I mumbled, scooting them aside. “I’ll be back later. You know I love you.”

When I arrived at the hospital, the admissions nurse stopped me to say one of the patients was requesting to be done earlier. This is the kind of query that does not go over well in any queueing situation, except in very specific extenuating circumstances.

Lately I have been consuming perhaps too many Charles Dickens audio books.

“Let the citizen state their case, at the peril of derision from the mob,” I said. “May their reasons be egalitarian, for if privilege lies at the heart of their claim, they will be waiting ‘til the chime of midnight!”

“You can talk to him yourself,” said the nurse, eyes rolling.

The gentleman concerned was a spry octogenarian, not above the median age for an ophthalmology list. The procedure was straightforward, and he would be off home with his bad eye patched soon after.

“What’s your rush, my good chap?” I inquired loudly, sweeping into the open-plan day ward. Inmates in the adjacent beds knew the matter already, as they always do because patients in multi-bed rooms are part of an involuntary group project.

“I need to get home,” he said.

“Yes, and you shall, but why the hurry?” I asked.

“I need to bring my goat inside.”

“Of course!” I said.

I have heard every reason for priority treatment from Grandma’s funeral to “do you know who I am?” — but this was my first experience of caprine motivations.

“The goat protects my property, and I have to get all the rabbits, geese and chickens in their pens before dark. There are some kittens too.”

“No-one else can sort it out?” I asked.

“It’s a big bad goat,” he explained. “It rams anyone who goes up the driveway.”

Suburban animals are becoming less and less wild. The 6.4 million pet dogs of Australia are more likely to be seen on Instagram than running gleefully from the dog catcher, as they did last century. Our 5.3 million pet cats are also increasingly restricted in their wanderings.

“Happy 3rd Birthday Ella & Milo” said the banner we spotted recently at a waterside restaurant. We stared open-mouthed as champagne flowed to celebrate the twin cavoodles’ milestone. One canine guest arrived in a #PinkTutu. The menu had a Plates for Pups section — Chicken Breast with Green peas and Doglato — thirty dollars.

Harmless fun, or late-stage social media-inspired consumerism?

Our six-year-old, like all of her peers, is obsessed with animals and wants to live on a farm, but I would not survive that intersection with reality. Country kids see the true workings of life, death, and all the bodily functions in between — including reproduction. I don’t have the wherewithal to discuss all that at bedtime.

Yet we need our animals, as much as they need us. The mental health benefit of caring for an innocent creature is undeniable. Plus, they don’t express opinions — verbally at least. The elderly can enjoy devoted companionship long after our indifferent world becomes too busy with the new things, the next things.

Children can experience an example of reliable friendship — someone who will be there for a hug when no-one else is; who will not judge them when everyone else does.

From their humble, faithful dog those kids eventually learn that it is far better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Unconditional love not only exists — it is all that matters in the end.

Everyone agreed that the goat man should go first, and soon we said farewell.

Some evenings, when the cat on my lap is purring, I think of his busy little farm getting ready for bed, and smile.

Andrew Miller in an anaesthetist and director of the Federal AMA