I have always regarded myself as a responsible and caring pet owner.

My dog has never wanted for a thing. She’s well-fed and watered, groomed, exercised and loved. And when she gets blasted by a skunk just before my bedtime, which has happened more times than I care to remember, I don’t banish her to the cellar to escape the eye-watering stink until morning. No, sir, I grab the de-skunking solution, roll up my sleeves and dig right in, as any responsible and caring pet owner would do.

My dog has never had a reason to complain. Or if she has, she’s never told me about it. But after reading the other day about the extraordinary surge in pet-supply sales in this country, I am forced to admit that for the last 10 years I’ve been treating my dog like nothing more than a … well … a dog.

Retail sales of pet supplies, according to The New York Times, reached a whopping $8.5 billion last year, and that doesn’t include food and veterinarian services. Considering the amount is $2.3 billion more than we spend on baby-care items, market analysts theorize that an increasing number of us now think of our dogs and cats not just as pets but as adored, furry family members who deserve all the lavish treatment we can heap on them.

If my dog could read, she would find out that while she’s lounging alone on the porch, waiting for her owners to get home from work, there are other dogs out there who are being visited daily by human beings hired to come over and watch dog-friendly TV shows with them. It’s true. One pet-sitting Texas couple makes about $3,000 in a slow month, and twice that during the holidays, just keeping the local pet clientele from becoming bored, sullen and, presumably, susceptible to deep doggie depressions.

My dog would also be terribly disappointed to learn that while she is wolfing down common dog biscuits bought in bulk at Hannaford, dogs in more generous homes than hers are feasting on expensive wine-flavored treats with clever names like “Cab-bone-net” and “Char-dog-nay.”

As a pet owner, the story informed me, I’m a miserable cheapskate compared with the legions of true dog lovers out there. People like Paris Hilton, for example, who wouldn’t think of taking her precious Chihuahua outdoors without first dressing it in a fashionable sweater and a bejeweled collar. Or people who buy elegant purses in which to carry their canine and feline children, strollers in which to chauffeur them safely through the streets, and $240 plush pet sofas upholstered in designer prints on which to bed them down in style for the night.

My dog sleeps on blankets in a kennel in the cellar, for goodness’ sakes. We never even threw a proper “puppy shower.” How can I ever look her in the eye again without feeling guilt and remorse?

I’ve never once considered buying her a faux fur coat, as so many other of her species now wear proudly, or a $100 hand-tooled leather collar imported from Switzerland. Other dogs are trotting around with their paws laced into gold booties, cute little sneakers and doggie Mary Janes. Mine walks around bare-footed, like some kind of animal, unprotected from the elements by the kind of specially designed dog umbrella that “The Gilded Paw” sells online to people who genuinely care about their pets.

So far, my dog has no idea about this pampered-pooch phenomenon that’s sweeping America, and that’s OK with me. If she ever finds out how the other half lives, I’ll be in the doghouse for sure.