Roof Dog

Between the pair of us my brother and I decided to put the family dog on the roof of the house. It happened on of those luminous childhood days of July or August when a humble wooden ladder, propped idle against the house for a roof repair or a lick of paint, could become a handy tool for mischief and adventure.
Up and up we climbed to the flat roof above the kitchen.
The dog was entertained enormously by the unfamiliar corners and strange heights: he sniffled about from edge to edge, the furious flurry of his tail nearly enough to propel him off the roof and over the fields like a little black helicopter.
My sibling and I surveyed the landscape and scoured the immediate area for the lost objects of years gone by. It was pleasant up so high: we could see the tip-tops of trees and the ragged patchwork of farmland, and it seemed we had wandered hundreds of miles from home.
After a spell of exploration the little dog wished to return to the life of an ordinary, earth-bound canine. He inched his way to the lip of the roof, ascertained that he was at our mercy, and threw unmistakable glances of impatience in our direction.
"You'll have to wait," I said to him, distracted by the exhilarating notion of camping permanently on the rooftop.
The dog gave my brother and I one further stare that we could not decipher, and then he leaped off the roof. He sprang and landed on a garden of spongy grass. His knees were stained green for a week but he was wholly untroubled. There were no green knees for us upon descent; but tremendous was our astonishment upon seeing the flight of a brave little dog.