Sam is the kind of sugar pie I made as a child. Dragging tin pans out to the mud and whipping up batches of delicious servings of goopy concoctions all afternoon. Confections of grit and grass mixed in with the muddy slop added texture and pizazz. Sam is your imagination incarnate of the dirty days of childhood. I revel in his stink and filth. His vagabond ways have me charmed. You can hear him chirping and grunting as he investigates and takes apart the backyard. If I remember, I quickly run out there to pick up Gunther's poop before Sam inspects that for quality control. Frantically, I'm scooping, I hear him coming with heavy, excited breathing. Faster I move, raking the poop onto the poop pan. I see him out of the corner of my eye with a big grin shoving his cheeks in lumps of dough under his eyes. He gets close enough to proudly show me that he can help too. In both hands are two of Gunther's turds which he matter of factly plops onto the collection of poop. Nodding with satisfaction I see him scan the ground for more. "Uh, thank you Sam, no more all done, goodbye! Go away." I throw a ball. "fetch Sam, fetch the ball!" He toddles off down the walk after the bouncing distraction.