Over the years, the animal population of our humble and frequently fur-flown household has included one dog, nine cats, approximately 147 goldfish, a frog, about half a dozen hamsters and an indeterminate number of gerbils, one of which got loose in the basement and was never found.

The person largely responsible for turning our home into a combination of "Wild Kingdom" and Old MacDonald's Farm is my younger daughter, Lauren, whose love of all creatures, great and small, has become a pet project.

Now that Lauren has moved out of the house and into her own apartment (and has left a dog and four cats for her parents to take care of), she is starting all over again. The latest addition to the Zezima Zoo: a puppy named Maggie.

Maggie is a 9-month-old whippet (or what's-it, since she seems to be a combination of several breeds, although you can tell from her nose that she is definitely related to my side of the family). She is sweet, smart, playful, friendly, rambunctious and — a trait that will test the patience of even the most ardent animal lover — not yet housebroken.

Lauren called me recently to complain that she (Maggie, not Lauren, who has been housebroken for years) was unburdening herself on the carpet. I was proud that Lauren called to ask for my advice, mainly because I have always had a way with dogs, even to the point of getting into barking matches with them in public. One of these days, Lauren and her older sister, Katie, in cahoots with my wife, Sue, will have me declared mentally incompetent and put me in a kennel.

Anyway, we never had a problem with Lizzie, the 6-week-old puppy that Lauren, who was then 12, brought home one day almost 11 years ago. She said that her friend's neighbor had given her the dog. ("For free, Dad!") The woman told Lauren that if it was all right with her parents, she could keep the pup; if not, we could give her back the next day, no questions asked.

Naturally, I put my foot down. Fortunately, I didn't step in anything. At that moment, I fell in love with the little cutie. The next day, the neighbor phoned to say she wanted the puppy back. I said no. She called me a son of a female dog. I told her that I had veto power.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"If you don't let us keep the dog," I said firmly, "I am going to call my Uncle Vito."

That is how Lizzie became a member of our family. Of course, it fell on me to housebreak her. This entailed taking her outside on a leash. Lizzie wore a leash, too. Neither rain, nor snow, nor gloom of night could prevent me from taking the dog on her appointed rounds. Not once did she unburden herself on the carpet.

So it was not surprising that Lauren turned to me for my expertise in such matters.

"You ought to ask Mom," I said.

"Why?" Lauren wondered.

"She trained you and your sister," I replied. "Compared to that, housebreaking a dog is easy."

I went over to Lauren's apartment with my wife, just in case further intervention was needed, and was greeted enthusiastically by Maggie, who showed her affection by using my hands, arms and feet (but, thank goodness, no other appendages) as teething toys.

Lauren handed me the dog's leash, at the end of which was the dog.

"Take her for a walk," Lauren instructed. "Maybe you can get her to do something."

"OK, Maggie," I said as we capered off. "You're going to do No. 1 and No. 2, which adds up to No. 3!"

At that exact moment, one of Lauren's neighbors came out. She immediately went back inside and closed the door.

We walked around the large apartment complex several times. At one point Maggie squatted directly over my shoe, but nothing happened. About 20 minutes later, I brought the dog back and wished Lauren luck.

"She'll get the hang of it eventually," I said. "Be patient with her. And buy some carpet cleaner."

I hope Maggie is finally housebroken, because Lauren is going on vacation soon. Guess who's dog-sitting.