When my mom and dad purchased pet insurance for me, I thought it was a formal contract that legally required people to give me tummy rubs and ear scratches. I was shocked to discover it means my owners can now afford to eat three meals a day and I get to visit my best friend, the veterinarian, at least once a month. The veterinarian just gets me. She has an incredibly soft voice, kind eyes, and gentle hands. She knows exactly where and why I am in pain, and never moves towards me too suddenly. I know she thinks I am amazing. Not to brag, but my veterinarian even says I am a queen!
My name is Kibby Cat, but my favorite people affectionately refer to me as Queen Kib. I am seven years old, with enormous amber eyes, silky chestnut brown fur, and an unsatiable appetite for lapping up anything I find in a cup.
It makes perfect sense for a fancy feline of my stature to receive the most exquisite yet affordable medical care possible. After all, I am the esteemed ruler of my parents and their pitiful social lives. Just yesterday, they stood dumbfounded by my regality as I batted over a glass of milk, licked it off the hardwood floor, and then threw up on the bedsheets. They were so enthusiastic about cleaning the stain off their bedspread, I truly think they appreciate that I find ways to liven up their home.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to kill a carpet beetle and present its’ body to my owners as a thank you gift.