Sampson was the town dog. Rather, he was the town goat, but the town goat doesn’t have as much of a ring to it. Besides, Sampson thought he was a dog, so it made no sense to say anything different.

Occasionally newcomers to town embarked on crusades to return "poor" Sampson to pasture, but no fence could hold Sampson. He could jump almost anything, burrow under whatever he couldn’t jump, and eat through steel bars given time. Anyone who knew better simply left Sampson alone; he never hurt anyone.

"Hey Sampson," I called out to him as I passed. Sampson lifted his head and bleated in my direction, then returned to his slumber in the center of the sidewalk. Such was life for the town dog.

The traditional post of "town dog" had fallen to Sampson when the previous holder, a cat named Julius, had been untimely run over by a car. Julius had been named after the drink, because he was Orange, not after the Emperor of Rome. In fact, the post of town dog had not been held by a dog for at least twenty-five years; the identity of the last communal dog had been lost to the mists of time, but the title remained "town dog" for tradition’s sake, like the celebration of George Washington’s birthday on a Monday.

How Sampson came to believe himself a dog is a slightly more complicated story, but the short version is that he was raised by a dog, and therefore had imprinted, if that’s something goats do. How he came to be a jail breaking genius is a secret only Sampson knew, and as he only bleated, the secret would doubtless die with him.

I was contemplating these thoughts as I stared back at him, and I should have been watching where I was going because I slammed into a tree. Sampson had the politeness not to laugh, but I wouldn't have blamed him if he had.