I’d sprinkled a few kitty treats on top of the Lean ’N Lively Lamb Guts to lure her in. She ate the treats, careful not to ingest any of the offending lamb guts, then began howling for more treats.

“Sorry, Pro,” I said, my voice steely with resolution. “For once, I am not weakening.”

She continued howling while I made my instant coffee. Then, much to my surprise, she stopped. Usually, when she wants something she can keep up her wailing for hours on end.

But I guess this time she could tell I meant business, that I wasn’t going to cave in. Interesting how effective a little discipline can be. I really had to start being stricter with her and assert my authority. If she got hungry enough, eventually she’d break down and eat her diet food. It was as simple as that.

So it was with a feeling of accomplishment that I dropped a Pop Tart in the toaster for my breakfast. Prozac let out an indignant meow.

You call that fair? You get to eat Pop Tarts, and I’m stuck with Lite ’N Lively Lamb Crud?

It was then that she stalked off to the living room, treating me to that scenic view of her tush.

I gobbled my Pop Tart standing up at the kitchen sink, safely out of Prozac’s line of vision, then went to my office, otherwise known as my dining table, to check my e-mails.

Can you believe Daddy? Stealing a fork to get Reverend Sternmuller’s fingerprints? And pulling a hair from his head for his DNA? It’s just lucky he didn’t try to get a blood sample.

But I couldn’t sit around all day worrying about Daddy. That was Mom’s job.

I spent the next hour or so fine-tuning the Ackerman Awning Brochure (With Ackerman, You’ve Got It Made in the Shade!), then got dressed and ran out to do some errands.

I was heading down the path to my Corolla when I bumped into my neighbor Lance.

“Hey, Jaine. How’s it going?” he said, the sun glinting off his thick blond curls. Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he always dresses the part. He flicked a nonexistent speck of lint from his Ermenegildo Zegna suit. (No, Ermenegildo Zegna is not, as I once thought, a rare skin disease. It’s a designer label, one of Lance’s favorites.)

“I heard Prozac on the warpath this morning,” he said. “Is she still on her diet?”

“Yes, she most definitely is.”

“She lose any weight yet?”

“Well, no. She’s putting up a bit of a fight. It’s going to be a battle of wills between us, but trust me, I’m going to win.”

“Nothing personal, hon. But my money’s on the cat.”

Then he waved good-bye and headed off to his Mini Cooper.