ANIMAL CRACKERS : Trips to Vegas, Louis Vuitton Carrying Cases, Even Lingerie Are De Rigueuer for the Indulged Darlings of Pet Parents. How’s a Simple Pet Owner to Compete?

LET’S TRY TO MAINTAIN A LITTLE PERSPECTIVE HERE. . . .

A few months ago, Clara, my pug puppy, scratched her eye. I took her to a nearby animal hospital. The receptionist handed me a lengthy questionnaire designed to examine our relationship. One question read: “Do you think of your (fill in the species) as A) Just an animal B) A Pet or C) A member of the family?” Frankly, I regard Clara (and her older sister Sophie, too) as D) Boss, but that wasn’t an option, so I chose B.

The receptionist glared at me like I was Jack the Ripper. “My Yorkie is like my daughter,” she said icily.

I felt guilty for being a bad Pet Parent--and not for the first time either. The once simple role of pet (or, for the politically correct, companion animal) owner has become more complex. It’s no longer enough for me to feed the pugs, walk them, scoop poop, play fetch for hours and invest half my disposable income in Fleabusters, vet bills and chew sticks. I’m now encouraged to brush their teeth, administer personality tests, send them to training camp, bake biscuits from scratch and, should I fail them in any way, spring for psychotherapy.

Lest you think I’m exaggerating, consider this: According to the latest Gallup poll “pet census,” 58% of American households have pets, about 169.8 million animals of various species. To my astonishment, 88% considered their pets a member of the family, 65% gave Millie or Socks or Slimy or Cujo a Christmas present, and 24% celebrated birthdays, 17% with presents or a cake.

And to think that I, a pug fanatic for almost 20 years, have never purchased a Christmas stocking.

There are several theories to explain the rising Pet Parent population. Perhaps the most obvious is that a lot more people live alone and appreciate a furry or scaly friend’s companionship. And “more and more people are deciding not to have children,” says psychologist Barbara Cadow, a clinical associate at USC. “That wasn’t an option years ago. But nowadays, people make that decision freely. Then they find that there’s a hole in their life. And the lucky pets fill it.”

Take the spectacularly fortunate, Schuylor and Berni, an Old English sheepdog and a Lhasa apso who belong to my friends James and Codette. “The only difference between them and children is we don’t have to put away for college,” Codette says. “We don’t have to buy them a car or clothing. Though I do. They have raincoats and sweaters.”

Schuylor and Berni get top billing on the phone machine message and go everywhere, most recently to Las Vegas, where their companion humans found a hotel that welcomed the 70-pound Schuylor (talk about a casino doing anything to get you in).

“I even took them to the Blessing of the Animals,” says Codette. “Shortly after Schuylor was blessed he ran away, and someone called us and said they found him. I don’t know if there’s a correlation.”

I do. To have a relationship with an animal companion is to be in touch with a higher form of love. You have to accept the pet for what it is; you can’t try to make a gerbil into a parakeet. And in exchange: “You come home from work in a bad mood, you don’t want to hear your wife talk about her problems,” says Paul, whose heart belongs to Tommy, a West Highland white terrier. “But a dog doesn’t argue. He’s just glad to see you.” Paul shows his appreciation by holding a cool compress to Tommy’s forehead when the weather gets really hot.

As for me, every third day finds me writing another check to Nature’s Grooming in Santa Monica (aka Chews R Us) for some holistic pet necessity that I never needed before--special lamb and rice kibble, vitamin supplements with zinc, and miraculous enzymes that neutralize odors. “Sixteen years ago, the attitude of people manufacturing stuff for animals was, ‘Oh, that’s good enough for a dog,’ ” says shop owner Leigh Layne (who is soon going to own the mortgage on my house). “But now people want good enough for a human.”

Chalk the trend up to baby boomers, who use their pets to further express their individuality. “Whether or not you put a bikini or a mountain leash (made of rappelling cord) on your dog says something about you,” Layne says. (A bikini seems like a definite cry for help.)

Still, there’s a fine line between being an indulgent Pet Owner and a Pet Parent, though nobody agrees exactly where the line should be drawn. Blanche Roberts, who runs a luxe grooming operation, The Grooming Shop, in Woodland Hills, maintains that the difference is, “an Owner brings the dog in, says she wants a regular kennel clip on her poodle, asks what time the dog will be ready, leaves, comes back at the appointed hour, pays, goes home, and in six weeks, I see her again.

“But the Parent walks in clutching the dog to her breast. She asks if the dog will be in the crate all day, she tells you to be careful of the feet, the eyes, the ears--and she wants a special Continental clip with a little rounded topknot and the toenails polished. Then she asks when the dog will be ready; you say three hours and she starts to whine--and she goes on whining until you say one hour. Then she returns, looks at her dog as if you have been beating it and cries, ‘poor Poopsy, poor Poopsy.’ ”

Claire, mother of 55- and 65-pound Samoyeds, wouldn’t even think of leaving her darlings with a groomer. “I get in the tub with them, fully dressed, and prepare to get soaking wet,” she says, adding that she tried washing them in the nude but wound up getting scratched. “Then I chase them around the house with a blow dryer. It’s a five-hour process.”

I CONSIDER MYSELF TO BE AN OWNER BECAUSE THE PUGS DON’T HAVE A BED shaped like a tugboat, a personal trainer, a Louis Vuitton carrying case or a four-figure doghouse designed by an architect. And I don’t consider myself to be their mom. But my husband, Duke, disagrees. “You’ve done everything for that puppy except find a Montessori school,” he says, referring to Clara, who has been steadily draining my checking account since last September, when I flew to New York to pick her up because her breeder refused to ship her. In my own defense, I did have business in the city. “I think you’re close to the Danger Zone,” he cautions.

So is he, according to my friend Rachel’s definition of a Pet Parent, which is “anyone who has ever made up songs about their pet.” Recently, Duke startled me by singing a chorus of “Pugolina” to the tune of “Thumbelina.” (The bridge went: “Though you’re no bigger than my shoe, than my shoe, oh, Pugolina don’t be blue. Scratch and dig! Run and yelp! Bite and chew!”) Duke claims that his behavior was perfectly natural. “It wasn’t for the dog, it was for you,” he argues. “The dog doesn’t understand the lyrics.” (I wouldn’t bet on that.)

But the real border between Owner and Parent probably runs through the high-tech examining rooms in the ultra-modern veterinary hospitals where state-of-the-art medical care is now available at close-to-human prices. “A Pet Owner doesn’t give the cat allergy shots,” says Marjorie, who does. “A Pet Owner doesn’t take the dog for acupuncture.” (She did that, too.)

I wouldn’t spring for $50,000 worth of chemotherapy, but I didn’t think twice about expense when Clara scratched her eye. The first vet I saw diagnosed it as a corneal ulcer and sent me home with $25 antibiotic drops and a $30 ointment. A week later, her eye looked worse, so I took her to my vet of more than 15 years. He declared that Clara had a perforated cornea and he had to operate at once. “How many of these operations have you done?” I asked.

“Quite a few,” he said. “They all lost their sight.”

I insisted on seeing a specialist. M vet referred me to an ophthalmologist at a veterinary medical center so sophisticated and well-equipped that all that was missing were support groups so the puppies, kittens and birdies could commiserate about their illnesses. I don’t know which I was more nervous about, the eye or the bill (not that a lack of money has ever stopped me from treating a pug in the past). But I got lucky on both accounts. The ophthalmologist was able to save Clara’s eye without surgery, and my tenderhearted husband coughed up a contribution.

SO IT SEEMS THAT EVERYONE (EXCEPT PERHAPS THE owner of the psychotic Doberman behind the barbed wire in the junkyard) is a Pet Parent to some degree. The question is degree. Hovering close to the line is Gwen Zeller, mother of two Afghan hounds. “When we get turkey dinner, they get turkey dinner,” she says. “We wouldn’t dare come back from eating out without bringing them a little. Nor would I think of going away without bringing them back a present.”

Then there’s Julie, mother of four cats, who once had a lover remark that he hated her eldest, Ottomay. “I told him, ‘If you and that cat were drowning, you’d better hope she was clinging to your lapels because I’d throw the rope to her,’ ” she said. At least Julie didn’t have to worry about fighting him for custody when they subsequently broke up, unlike one couple I know who had to see a therapist to work out satisfactory cat visitation.

On the other hand, President and Mrs. Clinton are definitely not bonded to their companion animal, despite all the hype about their cat, Socks. When they moved to Washington, they actually left the First Feline behind in Arkansas, and announced that Socks would join them later. Not that this bodes ill for the nation. Hillary is going to be too busy fixing up the country’s health care to help her pet write a best-selling book.

By any definition, Melody, a self-described “Super Mom” to her Shih Tzus, Max and Mimi, is far over the line. “I live for their poop!” she exclaimed during a recent visit to Petco (the animal kingdom’s answer to Ikea). “They have a nanny who comes in twice a day, and sweaters for when it gets cold,” she says. “They even have their own stroller. I take them out in it as much as possible.”

I delicately inquired if her dogs had some kind of disability such as hip dysplasia. It was as if I had suggested her children had lice. “They’re too little to walk long distances,” she said indignantly. And when I mentioned that my pugs were about the same size and had no trouble, she assured me that her Shih Tzus were “extremely athletic.” (I’ve yet to meet a Pet Parent who described any aspect about his or her creature as unexceptional.) “The stroller allows me to spend more time with them,” she claims.

This logic does not surprise Matthew Margolis, owner of the National Institute for Dog Training, which has offices in West Los Angeles. “Pet Parents literally treat their animals like a child, even to the point of talking to it like a child or making excuses,” he says. “Like they say, ‘He only goes to the bathroom because he’s angry,’ or ‘I’m not giving him enough attention and that’s why he doesn’t listen.’ They forget that dogs are not people in dog’s clothing.”

My husband has threatened to commit me if he ever comes home and finds the pugs in a party dress or a cowboy outfit. But Marie Wang, manager of Posh Pups, an animal fashion house on the Venice Boardwalk that specializes in such finery, reports that business is booming. “If it’s summer, Parents need sunglasses and a visor,” she says. “If it’s winter, they need a biker jacket or a sweater or a raincoat. We’ve even had people inquire about lingerie.”

Her boss, designer Gwen Zeller, has outfitted iguanas, llamas, horses, goats and pigs, but her most unusual request came from the mother of a Labrador retriever. “She was having a Bark Mitzvah for her dog when it turned 13 in dog years,” Zeller recalls. The woman planned a religious service followed by a party for 20 dog guests. “We made the Bark Mitzvah dog a yarmulke and a Western-style suit, and the other dogs got monogrammed hats.”

Cat owners need not feel superior. “I get letters from cats all the time complaining about their parents,” says Susan Lee, publisher of a catalogue called Crazy Cat Lady, which features a Kitty Elvis ensemble, a catnip Voo Doo Vet Doll and 24-karat gold-plated bowls ($82). “But no one is that demented that they think the cat knows the difference.”

Yeah, right. Recently, my friend Rachel explained that her cat, Beltane, likes to play with thumbtacks because “she’s fascinated by the manifestation of contrast.” Rachel is so gaga that she intends to become a Pet Grandparent soon, when she has her cat bred. “The wonderful thing about being a Pet Parent is that it opens your eyes to a whole other world.”

Moreover, it’s an almost entirely positive experience. I’ve never had a day when the pugs didn’t make me laugh--and that’s more than I can say about most people I know. And they’re very easy to please. I can bring home a fuzzy ball with a squeaker and Sophie’s entertained for hours. This, no doubt, explains why independent pet stores reported earnings of $1.77 billion in 1991. (Funny, I thought I’d spent even more.)

“A lot of therapists advise clients to get an animal,” says psychologist Cadow. She has patients whose “kids” are bunnies and cats, but dogs are particularly beneficial. “There’s a whole community based on having the dog,” Cadow says. “Walking the dog. Taking it to the dog park. We need those connections.” I’m not sure I really needed to become connected to Pug Talk magazine, for which I am the Hollywood Correspondent. But if I were a baker, I suppose I’d try my hand at dog cookies.

PEOPLE WHO DON’T HAVE companion animals can’t imagine how great a hold they have on your heart. It’s been six months since I put down my beloved 14-year-old pug Bess, and I still cry when I remember her hellish chortles. Thanks to the pugs, I have a compelling reason to get out of bed every morning, and even though I work alone, I’m never lonely. Sometimes my grip on reality slips; I feel guilty for thinking that Sophie is prettier (and dumber) than Clara, or I fear that I will cause psychic damage if I only take one in the car. But most of the time I’m in control.

Unlike Claire, who worries about her Samoyeds constantly. “I read somewhere that people were kidnaping pedigreed dogs and putting them in a pen with killer dogs and making them fight for their life,” she says. “That’s honestly my worst fear. They’re so sheltered. My husband and I won’t even have an argument in front of them, for God’s sake.”

Margolis, the animal trainer, sees the range of human emotions at his Betty Ford Treatment Center for Dogs, a three-week rehabilitation camp for chronic shoe-eaters, barkers and other offenders that he runs in Monterey Park. (The $1,200 cost buys a lot of shoes.) “You can’t believe the separation anxiety people feel when they drop off their animal,” he says. “They cry hysterically. They ask, ‘Will he hate me? Will he forget me? Will he think I’m a bad parent?’ ” On Saturdays--a Visiting Day--they come filled with guilt, bearing gifts.

“A lady brought three shopping bags,” Margolis recalls. “One was filled with blankets and pillows. One was toys--squeakies, chewies. And the final bag had three Gelsons barbecued chickens. She sat on my patio and set it all up.”

Just listening to these stories makes me hang my head in shame. While my husband and I take the pugs along on weekend trips to the desert or to Santa Barbara, on longer jaunts I leave them in good hands, kiss them goodby and don’t look back. This has backfired on me only once in the past, when I went on a three-week trip to Ecuador and left Sophie and the dear departed Bess and Stella with my neighbor Barbara, who had offered to pug-sit.

I returned to the canine version of the movie “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle”: “The Hand That Holds the Leash.” Bess looked so much younger that I suspected she had been given sheep-cell injections. Sophie greted me with cool disdain. All my neighbors remarked how much happier my dogs seemed with Barbara and I soon learned why. She had walked each pug separately, scheduled play dates with other dogs in the neighborhood and served a smorgasbord of treats.

“Maybe you could sue her for alienation of pug affection,” Duke said.

Let’s try to maintain a little perspective here. . . .