Things were slow in the life of Robert Riley.  He was quite sure that he was in no way living the mystical “life of Riley” that he felt his name entitled him to.  In truth, he was closer to living the life of one William T. Rosenbaum, who spent most of his time stuck in high profile but surprisingly low-content meetings for a major advertising firm.  Riley’s life was, in short, horrendously boring at the moment. He imagined that the boredom was driving him slowly insane.

           Scotty, however, remained quite unaffected by the draught of activity.  The small dog was, in fact, rather grateful for such a respite.  The bit about the laundry was something that he never quite got used to, and after the last run-in, he was happy to simply lay about the apartment, occasionally being walked by Riley on the grassy roof. It was only understandable that the small Scottish terrier was somewhat disappointed when things began to happen again.

           It all started rather innocently at first, as it usually did.  Riley had once again left his apartment to walk Scotty.  And, as usual, he was walking Scotty on the grass roof.  The grass on the roof was there because the owner of the building was an ecologist who believed in the importance of trying out new eco-friendly ideas such as the grass roof.  The result of this belief was that Riley could walk his dog without leaving the apartment, and his dog could enjoy the view of the city from a position usually unavailable to canines.  (Another result of the grass roof was a substantially lowered rent for Riley, as not many wanted to take the chance of the sod roof collapsing on them, and this fact had kept the top floor apartment vacant for years before Riley had moved in.  Being of Irish descent, Riley was comfortable trusting to luck.)

           “Done yet?” Riley asked Scotty.  The dog was circling around, searching for whatever it was that dogs looked for in an outdoor lavatory.  Scotty was not on a leash—he never was—and Riley was leaning against the air conditioning fan.  The dog finished his “business” and, after kicking up a bit of grass with his hind legs, trotted towards the roof access door, tail wagging.  Riley walked in front of him and opened the door, then waited for Scotty to continue into the building.  It was at this point that Riley realized that the dog’s trot had stopped, and his ears had perked up.

           Riley beckoned towards the door.  “Come on lad, let’s get inside.”  He looked up at the cloudy sky.  “The weather looks like it will take a turn for the worse soon.” 

Scotty didn’t move.  He turned his head, looking off in the distance behind him.  Riley raised an eyebrow.  “What is it Scotty? What do you hear?”  Then he heard it: the muffled sound of a helicopter floating on the wind. The sound was coming from the south, the same direction from which the current foreboding clouds had also issued.  Riley grinned slightly.  The fact that the entire setup was horribly clichéd meant that something, hopefully, was about to happen.  Scotty knew it too, and he let out as resigned of a sigh as is possible for a dog to let out.

As was usually the case, both Riley and Scotty were correct in the assumption that something was about to happen to them.  The sound of the helicopter grew progressively louder, and as the two were staring up into the sky, a black, military-style helicopter (what other kind is there in these stories?) dropped from the clouds and proceeded to land neatly on the roof.  Riley took a few steps back and Scotty darted behind him, peeking out from behind Riley’s feet.  Neither could remember when anything this spectacular had ever happened.  As a result, Riley was slightly afraid of the helicopter at first, though he quickly shrugged it off.  He was determined to not be surprised by whatever happened. If he could handle the chest that loomed in his apartment, and the military hatchback, not to mention the laundry, then he could handle a helicopter landing on his roof.

The door on the side of the helicopter opened, and out stepped a tall, silver-haired man with a silver-haired beard to match.  He was dressed in the stereotypical “G-man” suit, which neatly concealed the semiautomatic pistol that was holstered underneath his right arm.  He walked slowly towards Riley, whose initial pang of fear was now being replaced by a more intense and prolonged feeling of amazement, which slowly morphed into relief, which then was replaced by his normal neutral feeling.  Scotty emerged from behind Riley and trotted up to the man, tail wagging furiously.  The man smiled and reached down, patting the dog on the head.  “Didn’t think he’d remember me,” he said quietly.