My mom has been force feeding Ophelia twice a day. She just started giving the poor cat Sub-Q fluids every other day. You’d think she’d be ready to say, “Alas, poor Ophelia….” and send her back where she came from.

But no. She exclaims, “Ophelia purred while I gave her fluids!” and “Ophelia’s so good when I feed her.”

Personally, I think it’s the Stockholm Syndrome. Mom is getting attached to this useless furry creature who runs her life. But it looks like Ophelia’s here to stay. I’m trying to make friends, but Ophelia doesn’t get it. A friendly “arf” and a sniff…who could misunderstand?

Cats are dumb.

My mom took Ophelia back to the vet on Monday. Ophelia’s lab tests show something is going on with her liver, which is why she’s turning yellow. No surprise there.

Mom came home with instructions for force-feeding, sub-Q fluids, and pills. Then she took me to the dog park. Lindsay, the park steward, is always happy to see us.

“The new kitty is sick?” Lindsay said. “Does she come with a return guarantee?”

See why I like Lindsay? That woman has great perspsective.

But she was joking and Cathy would never do that. She vowed Ophelia will never return to that shelter. And who else will be such a dedicated cat nurse?

I don’t really mind. When Cathy’s working on Ophelia, she puts me in my crate with a peanut butter kong toy. Yum. Ophelia’s not such a bad idea after all.

On Saturday my mom took Ophelia to the vet. Despite the advice of the behaviorist, Ophelia was not responding was not eating as much as my mom had hoped.

Dr. Angel took one look at Ophelia’s ears. “Yellow!” she exclaimed. “Liver disease!” She gave Ophelia some fluids and announced, “We’re sending out the blood tests. Come back Monday.”

Cathy went home with a few cans of special liver food and instructions to force feed. Ophelia also gets pills to stimulate her appetite and get over an infection she picked up.

Cathy was very bummed.

Appetite? I think Mom should take Ophelia to the park and let her run with me. A few rounds in the fresh air would do wonders for anybody’s appetite. I could ask my dog friends to chase her a little.

Wow…Ophelia marched right into the living room and took up a position near the sofa. She tried to jump to the sofa arm but couldn’t quite make it. Then she sat on the floor all evening while Cathy worked on her laptop. She growled when Creampuff seemed interested. Creampuff took off.

My mom was thrilled. Frankly, I think observing our cats is like watching paint dry, but hey…what do I know? I have a dog bed in every room and nobody messes with me.

Dr Jim the cat shrink told Mom to tempt the cats with delicious treats. Alas, the canned food doesn’t stay tempting for more than a single feeding. I suspect she’ll be heading over to Safeway for some generic version of Fancy Feast and maybe some human food in a lower-cost version.

Cathy’s following a diet she downloaded from the Internet. She looks great, but she says, “It ought to be called the Expensive Food diet. Lots of blueberries and salmon and organic produce.”

Alas, I have to go to my crate when Mom tries to tempt the kitties with treats. So far nothing seems to be working. Creampuff seems to have caught on to the game.

“Just a few years ago I was bragging about what great pets I had,” Mom sighs. “And now we’ve got the dog with the delicate tummy and the most neurotic cat on the planet.”

She exaggerates. But not by much.

My mom Cathy was eager to hear what the cat shrink would say. “Dr. Jim”turned out to be like Dr. Doolittle. He talks to animals.

He’s awfully smart. He told Cathy more or less what I’ve been saying all along. Ophelia should be living alone with a nice little old lady. Well, he didn’t put it quite like that, but…

An older cat like Ophelia shouldn’t be placed with another cat, he said. But since she’s here, we can try a few tricks. So mom has them in separate rooms as much as possible. She’ll be feeding them delicious treats – but only when they are together. We could give them Prozac. (Prozac?)

No drugs yet, my mom said. She’s going to be rationing out the treats to motivate the relationship.

“After all,” my mom pointed out, “it’s not like Ophelia had a lot of choices. Not many people want a cat who’s 9 years old, overweight, and long-haired. Even little old ladies.”

And what about me? That nice Dr. Jim knows a normal, sane animal when he sees one. He decided I looked like a happy, healthy dog. He complimented me on being so good. Cathy, of course, took all the credit but hey, I can be generous.

Especially since Dr. Jim said I should get more treats.

“When she tries to jump on someone, make her sit and give her a reward. Carry a bag of treats. Give her a treat just for walking right.”

Wow. I love this shrink. He can analyze me anytime.

But I have more important things on my mind. We dogs have our priorities straight.

The cat shrink is coming this afternoon to see if our new housemate, Ophelia, is beyond help. Meanwhile, my mom Cathy got really worried last night. Ophelia dived under the bed and refused to come out all night. Usually she sleeps right next to Cathy’s pillow.

So early this morning Mom got up and poked the box springs cover where Ophelia (literally) hangs out. She installed Ophelia in the laundry room with food, water and a litter box. She cleverly set up a barrier so Ophelia can’t get behind the washing machine and refuse to come out, the way Creampuff does.

I peeked in while Mom was scooping the litter box. Ophelia seemed to be happy. Maybe she’s a seeker of solitude. Maybe she’s part mushroom and she likes small, dark spaces. Hmm…from a certain angle, she does kind of resemble a mushroom.

Then Mom turned to me with that gleam in her eye. “You know, Gracie, if these behaviorists seem to know what they’re doing, I can hire them to work on your jumping and pulling issues.”

Uh oh. Training. Tugging my leash. Squirt guns. Anyway, what’s wrong with a few jumps now and then? I only jump on people we know or people who seem, well, suspicious. Mom should be thanking me.

We don’t know this man’s name. He doesn’t have a dog.

But he gives a great butt scratch.

My mom Cathy says, “Gracie, you are here to run and play with the other dogs, not suck up affection from everyone in sight.”

Please. I am a CUPPIE. I have a responsibility to my royal subjects. This one understands his role.

So mom leaves me at the Downtown Dog lounge while she goes gadding about with my Uncle Lance. They went to the Farmers Market where I’m not allowed. I love the Dog Lounge. Today I spent a few hours with Summer and Sue. They dressed me up in a Halloween costume and took my picture.

If you look closely you’ll see I’m putting up with this fuss because they’re so nice. I get lots of attention whenever I stay there. But hey, I’m a dog. Dogs are supposed to be naked. My mom knows that. She won’t even buy me a cute little winter coat.

My mom hates Halloween. One year someone persuaded her to go to a party. (Of course I wasn’t even born then, but I hear about it every year.) Cathy dressed up as a hippie. She wore beads and tattered old jeans. Several people asked why she hadn’t come in costume. I guess Cathy was even more fashion-challenged than she is now.

That was her last Halloween party. For life, she says.

My mom just read me part of this article from the New York Times. Apparently more straight guys are coming out of the closet, disclosing their deep affection for the feline species.

“The article didn’t come right out and say that women are attracted to men who own cats,” Cathy told me. “But a guy who likes cats is very sure of himself and confident about his masculinity.”

Hah. A guy who owns dogs can take his dog to the park. He’ll meet a dozen women who will “ooh” and “ah” over the dog. And a woman who owns a dog will get tons of attention — the good kind — not to mention respect from guys who admire a strong, secure female.

I’m not the least bit insecure about my status.