Let Me Get This Straight: I’m the Human, You’re the Cat . . .

I am not one of those neurotic cat people. Really I’m not.

Although I do own a single, reasonably personable cat, there are no cat toys strewn about my house.

I do not have pictures of cats on my walls. I would sooner eat spiders than talk baby talk to animals. Nor would I ever even think of corresponding with my friends on stationery adorned with pastel sketches of cute little kitties.

When other people talk about their children, I do not butt in to describe the precocious things my cat does. I do not put her paw print on my Christmas cards next to my signature.

I have never tried to get my little furry pal a date, so that I could have surrogate grandchildren.

So, all in all, I think I can claim that I’ve kept this cat thing under control.

In any case, my calico cat, Oprah, is the antithesis of frou-frou. She sags low in the middle, like a ’72 Dodge Dart with busted shocks. She has been known to waddle.

Definitely not the Cat Fancier poster kitty.

But lately I’ve been struck by an odd fear. Maybe there’s a Latin name for it, like felisbiddiephobia-- the fear of turning into one of those eccentric Cat Ladies.

You know, the ones who look like human hairballs and live out their declining years as concierge to a houseful of feral terrors. The ones who buy no food or clothes for themselves, but whose swarms of cats eat out of crystal goblets.

The ones who pass away, friendless and unknown, and leave huge estates to their cats.

Although I can still lay claim to thirty-something, I saw a glimpse of such a grim future recently when my cat came down with the sniffles.

I knew for sure that’s all it was. The sniffles. But I spent $633 to treat her.

So I’m asking myself, is this it? Is this the first line Cat Ladies cross?

Am I now committed to a lifetime of dotty decline, keeping diaries on the activities of Oprah’s grandchildren like a demented version of Jane Goodall with her chimps?

I mean, I have caught colds myself. At most, they cost me a few days of my life and about $26 in over-the-counter pills and potions. So $633 should buy me the bionic cat, the way I see it. A cat that would win the equivalent of the Miss Universe contest, snag a lucrative movie contract and discover cold fusion in her spare time.

In my defense, I have to say that of course no one likes to see an animal suffer. Or if you do, maybe you’re headed for the niche recently left vacant by Jeffrey Dahmer.

And let me tell you, there is nothing more abject than a sick cat. The night in kitty intensive care began innocently enough. A few sneezes, quite dainty ones, really.

But by the following day, my usually clingy companion showed all the personality of a lizard on a cold day. Initially, I showed great restraint. I went about my business. Episodes of hiding under the bed were followed by gasping and wheezing.

Then the clincher--drooling.

Oh-oh, I thought. Bad news. Rabid cat. Cujo with claws.

Get Oprah in a biting mood and I’ll wind up screaming in terror at the sight of a Perrier bottle.

I consulted the cat owner’s manual. (Of course there’s such a thing and I am not a cat lady just because I have one; you have a manual for your car and your computer, don’t you? You think a sentient being is less complicated?)

The book confirmed my worst fears. My cat was sick all right. And it was obviously sick with some disease that wouldn’t go away on its own. Probably had a fever.

Ah, geez. Oprah might die if she didn’t get treatment.

Guilt comes in on little cat feet.

I called the vet. On a Sunday, this is an expensive thing to do. They can smell the guilt on you the way Rottweilers smell fear. It sets their wallets a-tingle.

And so I entered the wonderful world of weekend veterinary medicine. My vet was closed. But the phone rang through to the 24-hour emergency vet.

Bring the cat in right away, they said. So off I went, drooling cat in its carrier, taking the long ride from Calabasas to Woodland Hills, home of the all-night vet.

I sat in a waiting room with other pet owners, cat drool puddling at my feet. The examining room, with its tile walls and metal examining table and sink, looked like all the scary places I’d been taken with broken bones or gaping wounds.

Except it would be much, much more expensive.

During the wait, I heard the vet break the bad news to somebody whose kitten didn’t make it. “Sometimes they just get a virus and we never know what it is. It can move pretty fast.”

I wondered if their cat had drooled, too.

What? My cat might have cancer? Leukemia? Yes, I said, of course I want the whole battery of tests. Where do I sign?

They shaved her leg, stuck in the IV and I went home, certain she was doomed.

The people who work at the all-night vets must be vampires, because the all-night vet closes at 8 a.m., so shortly after sunrise I had to schlep the cat from the all-night vet to the daytime vet.

Mercifully, but at great cost, my cat made it though the night. I wrote a check for $403. Two days and $230 later, I learned the cat had “an upper respiratory infection.” We went home, me with the expensive pills and drops, she with the attitude.

She hid under my bed for a couple of days, just as she had before I blew the $633. Eventually, she got better. I’m still finding cat medicine on the ceiling, but that’s another story.

I really don’t think I’m turning into a Cat Lady. But I do feel like I’m coming down with something.

Oprah, fetch me the Ny-Quil and I’ll wash your crystal goblet and rewrite my will.