No two words in the English
language cause me more confusion or anxiety than “homeowner’s insurance.”
It
wasn’t always that way. Back when my
husband and I lived a mobile home, we were covered by an amazing insurance
company. Believe me, it’s a good thing we were, because the mobile home seemed
to be cursed. A tree fell through the
roof, another tree crushed our newly erected fence, a pipe burst while we were
away and formed a pond on our wall-to-wall carpeting, and we had a power surge
that killed everything electronic – from the TV and stereo system to the
computer.
And
each time, we contacted the insurance company and they said, “Take some photos
of the damages, get an estimate and submit it to us, and then we’ll send you a
check.” And they did, within less than a week. Simple, no hassle.
Sadly,
when we built our new house, we had to find another insurance company because
the one we’d been using dealt strictly with mobile homes.
The
first company I contacted seemed thrilled to have me as a potential new client.
The woman asked me several questions, one of which was if I owned any dogs. I
told her I had two rottweilers.
She
was silent for several seconds before she said, “Oh…I’m sorry.” Her tone
instantly had transformed from warm and cheerful to so chilly, my ear nearly
got frostbite. “Rottweilers are on our 10-most-vicious-dogs list. We can’t
insure you.”
Up
until then, I hadn’t been aware that such a dog list even existed.
So
I called another company…and another. And each time, I received the same
reaction. The minute I mentioned the rottweilers, the agents hung up so fast, I
could feel the breeze through the phone.
.
I
decided not to waste any more time and just get right to the point when I
called the next batch of prospective insurers.
“Look,”
I said, the minute they answered the phone. “I have two rottweilers. Will you
insure my property?”
Not
one of them said yes. By then, I was so frustrated, I seriously was tempted to
say I had two toy poodles.
“But
if you conceal information from the insurance company and then you have a fire
or something and the claims guy comes over and sees two rottweilers standing
there, he can cancel your policy right on the spot,” one of my friends pointed
out.
“I
can always say I’m just dog-sitting for someone,” I muttered.
Finally,
one company came up with a compromise. They said they would insure my house and
property, but not my dogs. In other words, if one of my dogs decided to gnaw
her way through a couple walls in the house, run loose and de-pants someone or
make fricassee out of the neighbor’s chickens, I was on my own. Still, it was a
risk I was willing to take.
I
paid the yearly premium and breathed a sigh of relief. Our new house finally
was insured! It had taken me three months and about 50 phone calls, but for the
first time, I felt as if I finally could relax and not have to worry about
every little breeze or raindrop turning into a hurricane or a monsoon and
destroying my uninsured property. The
only thing I had to worry about was keeping my dogs in line.
Six
months later, the insurance company called and said they’d decided to drop me
and would refund the remaining portion of my premium. Before I even could ask why, the agent thanked me and hung up. I
never was told why I’d been dumped. I suspected they’d watched the movie, “The
Omen,” and witnessed the rottweilers turning people into human jerky. But that
shouldn’t have concerned them. After all, my dogs weren’t even included in my
insurance coverage.
So
once again, I had to hunt for an insurance company. Luckily, someone told me
about one that supposedly had no problem with insuring pit bulls, so I figured
my rotties just might have a chance.
Sure
enough, not only was the company more than happy to insure my house and the
dogs, their rates were lower and also included a smaller deductible and better
coverage. I truly believed everything had worked out for the best.
So
for six years now, I have faithfully paid my annual $655 premium, feeling
confident that if anything ever happened to my house or belongings, I’d be
fully covered and quickly reimbursed, just like with my previous mobile-home
insurance.
One
night a couple weeks ago, however, that feeling of confidence totally vanished.
I
was watching TV when suddenly, I heard the wind howling outside. It grew louder
and louder, sounding like a freight train heading straight toward the house.
Then came a crash.
I
knew from past experience that anything crashing, especially on my own
property, never was a good thing. After several minutes of hesitation, I took a
deep breath and slowly creaked open the back door. The only tree close to the
house – a tall oak that holds my bird feeder – had snapped. And a big part of
it was lying on my chain-link fence, which no longer resembled a fence. It was
a heap of tangled, twisted wire with bent pipes sticking up out of it. I
groaned. Not only did I need that fence to keep out the coyotes and other
creatures in the Wild Kingdom where I live, I needed it to keep my dogs – the
savage, drooling, beasts – in the yard.
The
next morning, I called my insurance company, described what had happened, and
asked about filing a claim. I wasn’t feeling any stress because I was certain
they’d swiftly handle all of my problems.
The
agent didn’t immediately respond. Finally, he said, “Well…I don’t want to
discourage you, but let me give you some advice. If you file a claim for
something as minor as this, it will void your non-claim bonus of $189, which
then will be added to your premium from now on. And in the future, if something
really bad happens, like a house fire, and you have to file another claim, the
company will see that you already have a claim on record and probably will
cancel your policy.”
I
nearly was too stunned to speak as I tried to digest what he was saying.
“You
mean,” I said, “if I file this claim, my premium will go up and even though I
keep paying the higher price for the next 20 years, you still can cancel my
insurance if I ever try to file another claim?”
“Basically,
yes,” he said.
“Then
essentially, what you’re saying is I’m allowed to file only one claim, so I’d
better make sure when I do, it’s a really good one – like the Queen Mother of
all claims?”
He
didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He’d made his point – too clearly.
I
hung up, upset. What good was having an insurance company, I wondered, if I was
afraid to use it? And the worst part
was this company was one of the popular ones, always advertising on TV and
making it look as if filing a claim with them was a pleasurable experience -
all hearts, flowers and ice-cream cones.
The
next day, I called a fence company to get an estimate for the repairs. The guy
came right over, measured the fence, poked at it, and then scratched his chin
and said, “Hmm,” a lot as he scribbled notes on a pad of paper. He said he
would get back to me with the estimate. He did mention I’d need three new
sections of fence and some new pipe. He also said I should remove the tree before
it caused any more damage.
But
due to the snowstorms over the next few days, the tree has remained on my
fence.
No
matter how much the clean-up and repairs end up costing me, I’ve decided to
forget about filing a claim. No, I’m going to save what I assume will be my one
and only claim for something bigger and much more important, like a giant
sinkhole swallowing the house, or a meteor crushing it into a pile of kindling.
I
recently read that my insurance company has $98 billion in assets.
Gee,
I can’t imagine why.
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