This is Nicki.
Nicki is our beloved cat. Don’t be alarmed, she’s fine.
But this week, Husbandrinka and I went out to dinner with some friends and these friends told us that they have pet insurance for their dog. At first I got really excited because I thought they meant life insurance for their dog, and, well, not to be morbid, but one of their years is like seven of ours, so kaCHING, but unfortunately, after I mentally adopted and life insured half of New York City’s shelter pet population, they explained that they meant pet health insurance.
Apparently, it’s easy to get, and all it requires is money. Like $46 a month, which seems like a great investment, except if you’re stuck with a healthy pet, in which case it’s like throwing cash out the window. I shared this economic analysis tidbit at dinner and everyone sort of looked at me unlovingly and said that they didn’t think that I knew how insurance worked.
So we’re thinking about it. I mean Nicki was supersick a few years ago and it broke my heart to have to hide the credit card bill from that event from Husbandrinka. That kind of deception can be really tough on a marriage, especially when there are many other credit card charges that I’m trying to mask.
And while we’re thinking about it, our Nicki is uninsured. Like an animal.
And she doesn’t even have a pre-existing condition.
Unless you count cuteness, that is.
I take comfort in that some people don’t have to worry about these things.
One year ago ...