I wouldn’t be barking up the wrong clothes tree to say that my younger daughter’s dog has a better wardrobe than I do.

So do both of my barber’s dogs.

It’s enough to make a grown human howl.

I became aware of this canine clothing conspiracy about a year ago when my daughter and her family adopted Opal, a sweet, smart and sassy Chihuahua pup whose only outfit was her birthday suit.

That soon changed with the purchase (by my daughter, not the dog) of the first item in an extensive ensemble of fashion-forward finery.

Opal’s wardrobe, which fills a small trunk, includes outfits for the holidays. This past year for Halloween, she was decked out as a Target shopping cart.

She also has outfits for Thanksgiving, Christmas and the Fourth of July. A Valentine’s Day getup may be in there, too. I don’t know if Opal has one for Arbor Day, but since dogs have a fondness for trees, if you know what I mean, it would be appropriate.

And her wardrobe doesn’t stop there. Sweaters, coats, shirts, skirts, hats and other garments make Opal a doggy doyenne who could win the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show if it were sponsored by Vogue or Cosmopolitan.

I have no idea how much my daughter has shelled out to keep Opal in the style to which she has become accustomed, but it has been well worth the expenditure. I say that as a proud grandfather. And also because it’s not my money.

But Opal is not the only canine whose mommy has kept her precious pooches in the lap dog of luxury.

Maria, my barber, has bedecked her 14-year-old Maltese twins, Louie and Chanel, in clothes ranging from holiday outfits to special ensembles.

Louie, for example, has a fighter pilot jacket, complete with goggles, which makes him look like Snoopy, of Peanuts fame, ready to do battle with the Red Baron.

Chanel has a pink tutu, which makes her look like an en pointer getting ready to star in “Sleeping Beauty.” After all, she’s a beauty who, as a senior dog, sleeps much of the time.

“He doesn’t mind getting dressed up, but she’s not crazy about it,” said Maria, who named Louie after Louis Vuitton, the international fashion house, and Chanel after Coco Chanel, the French fashion designer.

Then there’s me.

I must have been named after Jerry in the “Tom and Jerry” cartoons. Neither Tom (a cat) nor Jerry (a mouse) wears clothes.

What I wear most of the time are two outfits: T-shirts and shorts in spring and summer, and sweatshirts and sweatpants in fall and winter.

I will not blame my wife, Sue, who buys my clothes because I refuse to accompany her to the store and shop till I drop.

My idea of hell is to be stuck in the fitting room while other men and their wives wait for me to emerge in an outfit that shows off either flabby flanks or a bony bottom. Or both.

Sue has excellent taste, but she knows that I consider jeans and a button-down shirt to be formal attire.

To me, plaid flannel pajamas are de rigueur, a French phrase meaning: “You look like a dweeb.”

That’s why — unlike Opal, Louie and Chanel — I don’t have special holiday outfits. I have never gone trick-or-treating dressed as a Target shopping cart. I don’t have a fighter pilot jacket and goggles. And I certainly don’t own a tutu.

That’s also why I will never win the title at Westminster, even if it was sponsored by GQ, which in my case would stand for Geezers’ Quarterly.

When it comes to fashion, I’ve gone to the dogs.

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