I take it from a spate of well-orchestrated recent newspaper and magazine articles, as well as radio and television advertising, that we have a new manufactured medical crisis — clinical depression — to contend with. And probably not a moment too soon, either, as the traditionally popular sufferings were getting to be a bit old.

Following the memorable Year of the Gall Bladder, in which anyone who was anyone had that organ removed, relocated or otherwise seriously altered, the medical profession brought us other year-long specials ranging from appendix extraction to the always popular hip-joint replacement. A nation of hypochondriacs remains ever grateful, albeit still in a state of abnormal anxiety over the status of its collective health.

Thus, even though we presently are still in the latter stages of The Decade of the Very Chic Coronary Bypass (have a heart — support your local cardiologist), if this be 1993 then this must be… The Era of Massive Deep, Dark Clinical Depression.

The medical vivisectionists have had their day in the sun, their 15 minutes of fame in the vortex of history. The moment is nigh for the shrink arm of the profession to assert itself. Depression is apparently a fad whose time has clearly arrived, and if that thought doesn’t put you hopelessly down in the dumps you probably are sicker than they are trying to make you believe.

Pick up a magazine and if you don’t find some harangue about the low spirits, gloominess, dejection and excessive misery that has taken over your life without you even suspecting it I will buy you a short beer when next you corner me down at the local pub and there is absolutely no way I can welch out of the deal.

Turn on television or radio and chances are good that before long you will have been assaulted by an advertisement to the effect that if you woke up this morning in a black funk and haven’t been able to get out of your own way since that point you most assuredly are a victim of clinical depression and need serious help. The half-gallon of Old Rotgut that you swilled at the party last night because it seemed like a good idea at the time has nothing whatsoever to do with it.

That the ads are sponsored by a grant from a drug company speaks volumes for the motivation behind this latest medical craze, although if you believe the message you very well may be too morose and bogged down to figure it out on your own just now.

By way of pulling you out of your manic-depressive panic let me assure you that the spreading melancholia is not confined to the human species.

According to an article in the newspaper this past week, Mia Farrow’s dog Maggie has its own shrink, although the guy is known in dog circles as an “animal behaviorist.” His name is reported to be Bashkim Dibra, and I believe it.

The dog is a bichon frise, which certainly is a breed that sounds like it would need more time on the psychiatrist’s couch than, say, your average cocker spaniel — the more so after living with Farrow and her schizoid lover, Woody Allen, one would think.

Dibra told The Washington Post that at 150 bucks per hour he may not be as expensive as other dog psychiatrists but he certainly is more effective.

“Put yourself in the mind of the dog,” is the advice that Dibra gives to his human clients. Had Farrow and Allen followed his counsel in their recent protracted courtroom hawg wrassle the rest of us wouldn’t have wound up half as depressed as we did over the shameful waste of multiple barrels of valuable newspaper ink used to chronicle the pornographic brawl. In this case, the dog may well be better adjusted than the parents.

Dibra has served as chief counsel to many other celebrity dogs. One client told the Post reporter that before Dibra came along her dog, Ruthie, suffered from “horrible separation anxiety. She was getting very hostile when we left the house.” Ruthie is presently in recovery at 150 bucks a pop, which makes you wonder just who it is that needs help most.

The lady fairly gushed about the group therapy that Dibra offers for puppies, but Dibra said this was an exaggeration of his services. They’re actually “socialization classes,” he explained, which is pretty depressing in itself.

Apparently there are no such classes for Old Dawgs, which is OK by me.

Kent Ward lives in Winterport.