Houdini in a smooth black pelt

Our cat, Sammy, has left the building. In the five years that he has graced us with his presence he has led a fairly sheltered life. He's actually been a total inside cat who very occasionally slips out to frolic in the grass. And then eat enough to produce a mighty hairball. Once, though, we didn't notice he was gone until we heard this hissing, spitting roar that started out low and grew louder and louder until it dropped suddenly like a train whistle gone by. I looked out the front window to see Sammy locked in mortal combat with one of the neighborhood denizens, rolling across our lawn like a tumbleweed. After recovering our cat, uninjured, we vowed that we would be better about keeping an eye on him, as he clearly was a sissy boy, unsuited to the harsh realities of life out of doors. He seemed relatively content in his small sphere, kicking litter out of the box with panache, eating his Friskies and then hurling upon the bed.
Our move to a new house seems to have rattled his poor little brain. Suddenly, he's dead set on getting out. Perhaps he sees himself as a kitty Magellen, destined to discover great things behind the juniper shrubs. In anycase, a quick block with the foot is no longer sufficient to impede his progress. He waits and darts like black lightening, the little shit, usually when I'm holding the baby, or carrying a sack of garbage. He waits until I am distracted and slow and then he takes advantage. I actually followed him and scooped him up the first 10 times he tried this. I brought him back up the steps and then endured his demented yowling to go back out. But yesterday he ran out and I just let him stay. I cannot beat the cat. Well, I can, but he's remarkable impervious to anything that doesn't actually flatten him.
A gang of kitties lurks outside our door, crouching in the junipers, each ready with a rusty purr when we walk up the steps. There's Feisty Red Cat, Snowball, and the Doppelganger, a black cat the very spitting image of our dear boy. Our arrival engendered a certain curiosity on the part of the feral feline posse, as evidenced by the small puddles of cat urine they left on our steps. I was filled with trepidation (and hope) that Sammy's first encounter with them would send him scurrying back inside. It was not to be; I watched Sammy hiss and yowl at the big ginger tom until he actually backed away. I realized that all the while I thought we were protecting our kitty from the big scary world, we were actually protecting the world our neutered, diminutive but nevertheless very alpha male. Our nine-pound wisp of smoke is the baddest cat in the whole damn town. I'm a little proud of my bully.