But, gloriously, that day has arrived.

Midland Life Insurance of Ohio recently began offering discounts to senior citizens who have pets.

It's believed to be the first company ever to do so. Other insurers may soon follow suit and, eventually, give breaks to pet owners of all ages.

Midland is doing a nice thing, of course.

Studies have shown that people with pets tend to live longer and visit doctors less frequently. Pets also have a soothing effect on their human companions, lowering their blood pressure and easing depression, among other things.

Frankly, though, I'm a little apprehensive about what an insurance actuary would do if he ever met my cats.

I fear he might jack up my premium -- or cancel my policy outright.

As cats go, Ziggy and Zoe are fairly agreeable, which is to say that they have not yet smothered me in my sleep, or tampered with the brakes on my car.

They have thought about it, though, I am sure.

There is lingering animosity, for instance, over my efforts to train them to retrieve my newspaper from the front porch in the morning. (The most they would do was sniff it disdainfully, then lie down on it.)

In fact, the only real work the Z's seem willing to do is to mow my lawn, but they tend to get sick afterward, usually on the most expensive rug in the house.

Ziggy, a sleek black cat with one blue eye and one green eye, is the senior member of our household cat staff.

Like me, he is a bit of a coward. Once, after a particularly rambunctious thunderstorm, I found him sitting in my desk chair, cowering next to a puddle of his own making.

On another occasion, I called a repairman to fix one of the many appliances in our house that break down the moment the warranty expires.

As is my custom, I spent a few minutes with the repairman subtly establishing in conversation that I am (a) nearly destitute and thus not worth trying to gouge (b) acquainted with several lawyers who have not yet been disbarred and (c) utterly clueless about pretty much anything involving more than two moving parts.

As we wound up our conversation, I realized I hadn't seen Ziggy in a while. Fearing he had slipped out the door and was on his way to tamper with my brakes, I commenced searching.

He was nowhere to be found. Just as I was about to give up hope, however, I saw something odd out of the corner of my eye.

Under a rug, smack dab in the middle, there was a large, quivery lump roughly the size of Ziggy.

I gently lifted the rug. There sat Ziggy, eyes wide, apparently surprised to see me wandering blithely about the house while the repairman still had a tap in my bank account.

Zoe is a lot like Ziggy, only twice as big and twice as weird. He is roughly the size and shape of a bowling ball with whiskers.

His most charming feature is that he is -- how shall I put this? -- rather indiscriminate in matters of the heart.

When visitors enter the house, Zoe drops at their feet, lies motionlessly on his back, and -- with paws curled--waits patiently to be petted.

Usually, the sight of the underside of a bowling ball with hair is enough to dissuade even the stoutest of hearts. But occasionally, someone will ignore my warnings and reach down to pet him.

This is a mistake, for Zoe is a greaseball.

He was a stray when we got him, and -- as best I can figure -- he spent the first few weeks of his life atop the head of an Elvis impersonator. No amount of grooming, bathing or dunking will lessen the film Zoe leaves on your hand.

Those who do pet him emit a tiny exclamation of horror -- "Oh, my!" -- then spend the rest of their visit discreetly looking for someplace to wipe their hands.

On numerous occasions, I have saved Ziggy and Zoe's lives. I don’t mean to sound picky, but I'm pretty sure it's been more than nine each.

Once, when I walked in the door at the end of the day, I was greeted by an unholy ruckus. I was so startled I almost left a puddle of my own by the front door.

As I stood there, trying to muster up the courage to yell for my wife to rescue me, I saw a furry bowling ball flash by. I gave chase. Through the kitchen. Into the dining room. Through the living room. Back into the dining room. Through the kitchen and up the stairs.

Finally, I cornered the beast under our clawfoot tub. Crouched on my hands and knees, I saw at last what I had been pursuing -- a shopping bag. And it was now alternately hissing and whimpering at me.

It was Zoe.

He had climbed into the bag and somehow managed to wrap its twine handles around his chubby neck, not once but twice, perhaps more. Unable to figure out how to ease his way out of this dilemma, he ran maniacally through the house, drawing the handles tighter.

I extricated Zoe from his noose, and he promptly dropped at my feet, legs curled, belly up, motionless.

Without thinking, I reached down and petted him.

"Oh, my!" I exclaimed. I jumped back, lips curled in disgust.

Then I went off in search of Ziggy.

I figured that, if nothing else, I'd be able to wipe my hands on the rug under which he would be hiding.