There's a passage somewhere in a George Orwell story about a animal that tries to bunt Orwell away while trying to eat the bread offered to it. My emus belong to this category: I am wheat, and I've no doubt that if the wheat could feed itself to the emus, I'd be immediately surplus to needs.
This is, though, only a joke. The fun for me is that they AREN'T pets. I'm just fortunate to be a part of their world -- and at present, morning feeding has become a real experience: my emus are in Constant Drama Mode, and are learning to eat from my hand WHILE leaping, kicking, hissing, feather-flaring, walking sideways, and making high-speed circuits of the house-clearing.
Supreme Emu