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Bill is the resident escape artist. He has figured out how to jump the gates in the house to get into rooms he should not be in. He also has found ways to squeeze under holes in the fence, punch open the front gate all to find a way to roam the neighborhood.

We should have named him after Harry Houdini instead of Bill Clinton.

This is the norm in my house. He gets out, I grab the leash, chase him around the neighborhood, and wait till he allows himself to be caught.

I say allow himself for the simple reason he always at the end just sits and waits till I am close and lets me put the leash on. Then we walk home.

He has fun on the way back. He drags me down the street proudly showing me all the places he has been and the smells he has found.

We can do this a few times a week. More neighbors know his name than mine.

I can sometimes track him down when he is out of sight by listening to them yell, “Go home Bill!”

So, after this happened three times yesterday, I decided until the gate is once again Bill proof all walks will be on the leash.

Bill was excited.

He sat, let me put the leash on him, and proceeded to drag me to the gate.

He looked at me to open it so we could go for a walk.

Not my intention in the slightest while still in pajamas and not having had that first cup of coffee.

Bill was not happy when I steered him into the yard instead. He kept dragging me near the gate, sitting and looking up at me expectantly.

I would walk him back to the yard.

He would drag me back to the gate.

I would tell him we were not going for a walk.

His ears would perk up at the word “walk”

“No” I would reply.

So here I am dreaming about a nice steaming cup of joe while Bill drags me around the neighborhood.

I thought I was the one in charge?

Michael Cole is a syndicated columnist that when he is not writing, he is plotting global domination. You can follow him at www.storyoveracup.com