A television series that made its debut last night on CBS employs a familiar reality-television formula: Contestants are evaluated by a panel of sharp-tongued judges, tasked with eliminating a participant at the end of each episode. The difference here is that the entrants are not aspiring supermodels, fashion designers, captains of industry, or celebrity hair stylists; they’re dogs — and not just any dogs, but ones who can, according to their bios, surf, skateboard, spell, sneeze on cue, and set a table.

In an era of canine chiropractors, condiments, and crystal-encrusted collars — not to mention, heirs to a billionairess’ fortune — it was only a matter of time before dogs got a televised chance to win the kind of money that could buy a near-endless supply of squeaky toys and marrowbones. But to earn the title “Greatest American Dog,” also the name of the show — and the $250,000 check that comes with it — the dogs must garner high scores in a series of obedience and talent competitions. A trio of judges presides over Canine Academy, where the 12 four-legged contestants and their guardians are staying.

Of course, it is the owner, not the winning animal, to whom the cash prize will be awarded; and it is the owner who is really being judged. The show’s premise — pampered dog makes good in front of the camera, owner rewarded — is emblematic of the increasingly high-stakes endeavor of caring for a pet.

Indeed, dog ownership — especially in New York City — seems to have taken a page from the hyper-parenting playbook, detailed and derided in Judith Warner’s “Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety.” In the book, the author describes “that caught-by-the-throat feeling so many mothers have today of always doing something wrong,” of being judged for their choice of preschools, pediatricians, and SAT tutors.

Around the same time Ms. Warner’s book hit stores in 2005, I picked up Rafi, my then 12-week-old labradoodle — with plans to take him on daily walks in the park, weekly visits to a neighborhood dog run, and regular veterinary check-ups. I would feed him quality kibble; train him to sit, stay, and come when called, and shower him with love. But what I should have been doing, some fellow dog owners insisted, was taking a month-long leave of absence from work to bond with my new dog, scheduling him for full-body massages, and feeding him raw meat.

“That’s what they would eat in the wild,” a fellow labradoodle owner, who preached the gospel of the so-called Biologically Appropriate Raw Food diet, or BARF, told me when Rafi was about four months old.

In retrospect, I might have pointed out that labradoodles aren’t found in the wild, that both of our dogs lived in prewar apartments on the Upper West Side — not some White Fang-like existence in the forest — and that Rafi was doing just fine. But, instead, I found myself worrying that I was selling my dog short because, while I paid close attention to the ingredients in the kibble I purchased, I hadn’t even considered feeding him anything but dog food. Those pangs of guilt would resurface many times, especially in those first few months, whenever I would hear about the benefits of some new-to-market doggy product or service that was not in my budget.

Living in a neighborhood full of dog runs, canine spas, and pet-friendly cooperatives, I have come to expect an earful from people who insist they know better. A few weeks ago when all of Rafi’s running, swimming, and squirrel chasing resulted in some unfortunate knots in his naturally frizzy fur, a store manager at a local grooming establishment, which sells toile dog beds and chew toys shaped like designer handbags, gave me a lecture on the importance of professional brush-outs.

When, recently, I ran into the corner store to pick up a gallon of milk, tethering Rafi outside for no more than two minutes, I came out to I find an angry-looking woman standing over Rafi. “One day, someone’s going to steal him — and then, you’ll be sorry,” she said, pointing a cane at me. “I have a poodle, and I would never, never, leave him alone like that.”

“He’s not a poodle; he’s a labradoodle,” was all I could think of to say, before grabbing the leash, and disappearing around the corner.

Perhaps, I should have thanked the woman with the cane for her concern; perhaps the chiding store manager only wanted what’s best for Rafi. Yet, I can’t help but feel that their critiques betray a “Perfect Madness” judgment of me, my priorities, and the pet-rearing skills to which I devote so much time and care.

On “Greatest American Dog,” canine owners alternately refer to their pet as their “son,” “frat brother,” “muse,” and “soul mate.” Rafi is none of those things to me. He has never been surfing or skateboarding, and cannot perform Advanced Placement-level tricks, such as spelling comprehension and setting the table.

He is my dog — sweet natured, mischievous, adored — and I’m just fine with that.

gbirkner@nysun.com