Speaking on a panel with me, a paediatric anaesthetist says that every time she takes a patient into theatre, she says to the parent, “I will take good care of your child.” Somehow, just imagining this solemn promise makes me tearful although I don’t even know that a variation of these words is headed my way.

For the past week, our cavoodle Odie has been vomiting. The vet’s diagnosis of “it could be a stomach bug or lymphoma” is not exactly reassuring but, admittedly, the patient is wagging its tail.

Two days later, our suspicion rises. The receptionist suggests I bring him in “now” for tests. I guiltily decline, loath to cancel my patients who have waited months to see me. Later, we go for an ultrasound and, as Odie burrows into my arms, his little heart thumps. Noticing his apprehension (and mine), the technician kneels, fusses over him before drawing him away.

As I swallow the bill shock, I learn that Odie has swallowed something causing gastric obstruction. The waiting room has emptied but the vet does me the courtesy of asking me inside to advise that he will need emergency surgery. After texting the kids, I rush him to the animal hospital. In the rear view, he looks tired and innocent, and I feel remorseful. How did we fail him?

The receptionist greets me with a fine-tuned amount of care and compassion. She neither indulges me nor fawns........

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