I love my rescued fur babies. Pity my human babies don’t feel the same way

“Rufus and Boris, Cool Cats of Hurstbridge” sponsor a jazz music program on community radio and each week their names are read out on air. Sometimes they reply with cheeky texts about kibble or how much they are digging the vibes, as they listen to the show from one of several luxury bedding sites around the house.

Afterwards, they head for the amenities wing/laundry where they groom and tuck into food shipped directly from France, and when I finally finish making the payments they will also be able to enjoy Swedish microchip feeders and individual wellness centres, complete with back massagers and simulated mother’s heartbeat, for those desperate times when we cannot be together.

My rescue pets are living their best life but it has created tensions around the house.Credit: iStock

Rufus and Boris are my rescue pets and ever since they arrived from the cat shelter, I have considered them the best investment I ever made. Such a good investment that I have an urge to grow my fur family further. But after many thousands of dollars spent and a referral from my bank manager for financial counselling, I have been forced to admit that I may need rescuing from my rescue pets.

Australians are among the world’s most enthusiastic pet owners. According to PetRescue, we adopt more than 60,000 abandoned animals each year and Animal Medicines Australia has estimated the annual worth of the pet industry at $30 billion. Sixteen per cent of us have pet insurance – an unthinkable statistic two decades ago – and at Christmas we fork out $360 million on eBay alone, buying doggy hats, fish tank displays for hundreds of dollars and prams with fitted parasols that spin around the park with our fur babies.

My children – the original ones – complain they have never received the care that I lavish on the cats and the family’s cohesiveness is being undermined by a couple of fat parasites. They brandish Psychology Today articles at me about the perils of turning pets into substitute children and highlight research that has found no measurable health benefit from pet ownership because the incredible cost creates so much stress that it cancels out the good stuff.

But rescue pets are more than just a way for parents to get over the end of childhood. They are a good deed in a wicked world, a karmic tick, and a wonderful way to satisfy the natural human inclination to nurture and care.

My friend who happily chose a child-free life nonetheless yearned for a pet. She purchased the largest possible fish tank and filled it with endangered species like Daintree rainbow fish and Mexican fighting fish, then gave them ironic names like Karen and Brian. She was just getting to know her fishy crew when they suddenly cannibalised themselves one night while she was out clubbing. She came home to find rare micro-Java weed all over the walls and Brian’s ravaged body on the carpet. While traumatic, she said the quality time she managed to spend with her fish made her a better person and she has since moved on to establish a small snail city that is flourishing.

But there is definitely something fishy going on in our relationship with domestic animals, particularly the apparent trend of using pets to replace our key relationships with other human beings. The 2022 Animal Medicines Pet Ownership Survey found 68 per cent of Australian households have a pet, compared to only 40 per cent with children as recorded by the Census. Add to this, the slew of studies that show people prefer their pets to their partners and we clearly have a problem.

It seems we are becoming a society of narcissistic “pet parents” who prefer the silent, non-judgmental presence of our animals to relationships with more demanding humans. If that’s the case, then we can forget worrying about climate change as the major existential threat because it’s far more likely we’ll be taken out by an army of behatted chihuahuas, distracting us from breeding with their adoring over-sized eyes and decimating our finances along the way.

Back at home, it’s certainly the case that Rufus and Boris never tire of my presence or complain about the lack of tomato sauce or clean undies in the house. But I don’t want to replace my children with them – not entirely.

Things came to a head last night at dinner, when I announced that Boris had learnt to say “hello”. Instead of celebrating this remarkable achievement, the kids assaulted me with stupid science facts about animals not having language centres in their brains. I said they were just jealous and we couldn’t possibly know what was going on in those little furry heads – food and sleep obviously but maybe also Nietzsche and Bach. Then I suggested the kids might want to move under the house if they didn’t like the way we were living.

I obviously regret my outburst now. It’s probably going to be necessary to rearrange the household anyway because in a week’s time, Rescued Ronnie and Earl the Curl will be arriving from the lost dog’s home and they are going to need somewhere decent to sleep.

I think it’s a sacrifice worth making.

Rosie Beaumont is a Melbourne-based writer.

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