Dog House
i.
House doesn't like dogs.
It's nothing deeply personal, nothing linked to deeply buried childhood trauma and, despite the supposedly astute observations certain people may have made in the past, it has very little to do with their desperate air of devotion, the slavish need to please and the promise of unending, unconditional love. It has a lotto do with campylobacter jejunitoxoplasmosis and seventeen other deeply unpleasant and potentially life-threatening illnesses House can name off the top of his head, but naturally he realises that this far more prosaic explanation provides less fodder for psychological insight than the former.
Either way, he rarely feels the need to explain such a common aversion to anyone these days. Women who might seek to analyse his many endearing quirks and fascinating caprices are few and far between, and House long ago lost the knack of acquiring new friends of the same sex, so, much like a damaged muscle that atrophies when un-exercised, his whims go unquestioned and his prejudices continue to exist unaltered. Gregory House M.D hates dogs: fact. And just to defy any attempt to sketch in a few more details of an accurate personal profile, he isn't that crazy about cats either.
It's the first of the truly crisp fall mornings when he first steps outside his door and finds the animal there. Leaning his weight on his good leg, House is performing his usual awkward morning calisthenics: balancing his motorcycle helmet on one knee whilst holding onto his cane and feeling for his door key with his free hand, when something out of the ordinary pulls at the edge of his vision.
Seated on the sidewalk at his feet, a brown, medium-sized dog is regarding him with a quizzical expression.
Looking around, House frowns at the deserted street. And then at the dog.
"What are you looking at?"
The dog's hairy eyebrows draw together in a slightly confused expression that, by any other human being, might be considered endearing. Re-pocketing his keys, House fixes him with narrowed eyes and staring back, the dog shifts his paws slightly, lifting the right one, as if it can physically sense his animosity.
"If there's anything brown or steaming here when I get home, I will hunt you down."
ii.
They work late on a case that night - later than they usual - and when House slides his bike up along the sidewalk at just before midnight, the pain in his leg is nagging at him like a bad tooth. Wrenching his cane loose from its holder, he leans heavily on it as he pulls off his helmet and gloves, biting down on his bottom lip. The phial of vicodin in his pocket is almost empty, all his muscles are aching and the icy New Jersey wind has just stepped up a notch when he reaches his front door.
The dog is still there.
The leash that ties it to the drainpipe by his doorway is old, faded leather and the collar it's attached to looks even older. Without even bending to check, House can see there are no tags, no license on the thing and, rolling his eyes, he reaches for his door keys again.
"Said they were coming back for you right? Told you to wait? Like a good little hairball?"
At the sound of his voice the mutt shuffles upright a little, cocks his head. He's not your average stray, but he isn't exactly poster-dog for pampered pooch of the year either. Frowning at the creature critically, House can't help visualising the calvacade of parasites that have to be lurking in its ears and thick wiry coat, let alone the bacteria running roughshod through its saliva. The animal has to be a walking bio-hazard and, pushing his door open with his shoulder, he gives him a long sideways look.
"Lucky for you I have Animal Control on speed-dial."
Dropping his head to his paws, the dog whimpers softly and House grunts.
"Oh right. Like a lifetime of sniffing assholes was anything to look forward to."
Entering his apartment, its warmth and familiar smells off piano-teak and his early morning toast greet him and, letting his bag and helmet slide to the floor, he shrugs off his jacket and limps to the sound system. As he makes his way into the kitchen, the soft melodic notes of Love's classic 'Alone Again Or' begin to spill through the room and he closes his eyes for a moment to savour the sound. A long day beating his head against the immovable object that is Cuddy and the seemingly unstoppable force that is the progress of his latest patient's disease has sapped his strength, but now the music and the rich smell of fresh coffee is seeping into his bones, making him feel human again. Tapping his fingers idly on the countertop, he sorts through his mail while the water coughs and trickles its way through the coffee-maker's filter. Opens the refrigerator while he skims the back page of the Princetonian.
The noise from outside is muffled, but he still hears it: a low, soulful groan followed by a high-pitched yip.
Raising his eyes, House waits. The coffee-maker is gurgling its last and the sound temporarily masks all others. In the next room Arthur Lee and the guys are reaching their dazzling crescendo but, as the song dies away, he hears it again. Silence for a second. Ten seconds. And then again. A deep, aching wail that tails off to end in an angry disgruntled sound like a period.
FIlling his coffee cup, House limps back into the living room and turns up the volume on the stereo. As well as the small pile of mail, there are several medical journals he subscribes to and, tearing the first open, he skims the titles of the lead articles before dropping it to the floor and opening the second. He's halfway through a supposedly landmark paper on endothelial damage, trying hard to suppress a desire to snort out loud, when the sound cuts through his concentration like a rusty saw through plywood.
The phone is conveniently at his elbow and, punching the last button on his speed-dial, House closes one eye and presses a fingertip to his temple. Waits while it rings, rings, rings and then, with an ominously slow deliberate click, picks up:
"You're through to Princeton Animal Control. There's no-one in the office at this time but if you'd like to leave a brief message..."
Outside the dog's howl reaches a nerve-jangling high pitch, blending almost seamlessly with the drawn out beep of the answering machine on the other end of the line and House sucks in a breath. Holds it.
"Did you get that? That's the sound of an animal in distress. Something tree-hugging furries like you are supposed to give a damn about..."
The dog howls again and he grits his teeth, grips the phone with whitened knuckles.
"221B Baker. Either send someone round now or in an hour with a hefty bag and a shovel. Your call."
iii.
He holds out till 2am before he calls the cops, even though he knows what they'll say.
"You need to call Animal Control. Their number is 924..."
"I called Animal Control. Apparently they have better things to do with their time than deal with the pain and suffering of innocent creatures..."
"I thought you said the dog appeared healthy?"
"I'm suffering! Me!!"
Mashing the receiver into his forehead, House falls back onto his pillows, pulling one to cover his face. Even through a layer of imitation duck-down, the dog's faint voice still seeps pitifully through.
"Is someone going to pick up the dog?"
"I'm sorry Dr. House, all we can do is inform An..."
"...imal Control. Thank you."
Reaching from under his pillow, House drops the phone back into its cradle. The phial of vicodin on the night stand is almost empty and, as he dry-swallows the last two, he weighs the consequences of chasing it with a couple of valium. Wilson's prescription is still taking up space in the bathroom cabinet, a constant reminder of his friend's brief, uncomfortable soujorn on House's couch, and a deep, velvety benzodiazepine-induced sleep is almost tempting enough to risk the combination of meds.
It takes him exactly three more seconds to realise that, exhausted at two in the morning, he can be almost as slow-witted as Chase.
iv.
"Eat it."
Looking at the hunk of meat in front of it, the dog lays its ears back against its head and whines. It's cold as knives outside the apartment building and, as well as the icy wind, a thin grey drizzle has started to fall. Pulling his bathrobe tighter around his body, House stares down at the animal with a steadily increasing animosity. There's no way the thing isn't hungry by now and, making what he hopes approximates a reassuring sound in the back of his throat, he pushes the steak towards it with the toe of his sneaker.
"Just...eat the...nice...steaky...wakey...like a good little..."
His molars grind softly against each other, his jaw spasming in the cold. Across the street a young couple are walking hand in hand, back from a party, and hearing their soft, low laughter, he feels suddenly and inexplicably furious.
"Just...eat the goddamned meat you kumquat-brained..."
At the sound of his voice, the dog steps back. Pulling the entire length of its leash taught, its lip lifts slightly in a half-hearted growl and its tail drops between its legs. It's the first time that the dog has moved any distance from its position and, seeing his chance, House steps forwards and, with a swift movement, unties the knotted leash from the drainpipe.
It takes him less than a second, but it takes less than that for the animal to realise what he's doing. Snatching his hand back, House barely escapes the snip of its jaws as it goes for his fingers with a look of barely-concealed panic. Released from its constraints, the quiet, seemingly harmless dog has suddenly been transformed into a slavering wolverine and, baring rows of very capable-looking teeth, advances on him in short angry little bursts. In a moment of crystal-clear irony, House realises that what he really needs at this moment is a stick, a long sturdy wooden stick, but it's an irony that is almost completely swamped by the primeval sense of horror he feels at the sight of a set of gleaming white canine teeth heading straight for his jugular.
"Easy!!! Eaaaaasy there!!!"
Stumbling clumsily backwards towards his open apartment door, House spreads his hands wide in front of him in the kind of placatory gesture he normally reserves for drunken husbands and the embittered families of patients, but for some reason his voice only seems to increase the dog's sense of danger. Reaching back with his foot, he feels his heel knock against the step and readies himself to throw his body backwards into the building but, at that precise moment, a car containing a group of medical students draws level with him and the driver, perhaps overcome with amusement at the sight of a department head about to be mauled by a small brown terrier, enthusiastically sounds his horn.
And the dog, as if released from a slingshot, leaps past him and into his apartment.
v.
He has no idea where it is.
Standing with his back to the open door of his building, House stares into the darkened corners of his home with a growing feeling of unease. Even with his cane now purposefully brandished in his right hand, he feels ridiculously vulnerable. An angry alien creature has invaded his home, his only sanctuary, trailing a cloud of dirt and bacteria and filled with a lust for his blood, and is now hiding somewhere in the darkness, waiting for an opportunity to attack.
The wind and rain buffet him from behind and, reluctantly, House pushes the front door closed. If he could drive the animal back out into the hallway, he could shut his apartment door and trap it at least temporarily. Then maybe one of the other tenants in the building would be forced to take responsibility for it, or shoot it, either way the dog would be dealt with by someone other than him.
Stepping back through his own door, he snaps on the light and scans the room. The dog is nowhere to be seen, but he skirts the couch anyway, keeping his eyes low and peering into the shadows under his piano and beside the bookcases. A sudden noise at his elbow causes him to jerk around in alarm, but it's only Steve McQueen, woken from a sound sleep and now poking his nose through the bars of his cage with curiosity. Eyeing him warily, House considers the possibility of somehow using the caged rat as bait. Weren't terriers supposed to hunt rodents? Maybe the site and smell of a plump healthy rat would be enough to bring the dog scurrying from its hiding place, helplessly obeying a biological imperative. No sooner has the idea entered his brain though, he dismisses it. He might be willing to risk poisoning an innocent canine with prescription meds, but endangering a friend and useful ally was just...tacky. No there had to be some other way. There had to be something else that would force the intruder to show his hand.
A soft rustling sound from the kitchen brings his head up with a snap and, taking a firmer hold on his cane, House sidles towards the doorway with as much stealth as a sleep-deprived man with one good leg can muster. The light switch is just inside and, slowly reaching around, he finds it and flips it on, preparing himself for a simultaneous assault.
In the corner of his kitchen, the dog has its head firmly buried in the trash can. Its back paws skidding weakly on the tiles, its front ones are firmly braced on the rim as it drives itself into the container. Behind it, strewn across the floor, are the remains of a sandwich, half a brownish lettuce and an apple core. When it finally spares him a cursory glance, the ferociousness of its expression is more than offset by the chunks of Beefaroni clinging to its muzzle.
vi.
"You actually eat Beefaroni?"
The incredulity in Wilson's voice is hard to understand. He of all people should know that, in the absence of a co-habitee, his friend's dietary requirements tended towards the basic.
"What?" House shrugs, "It's full of meat...it's fun to eat..."
Shifting the telephone to his other hand, he cranes his neck around the edge of the couch to get a better view of the dog. Having finished demolishing the contents of the trash, the animal is now slowly following a carefully laid trail of cold pasta and meat that leads across the floor to the open apartment door.
"It's really neat..."
Wilson sighs. A long weary sound. "You called me up in the middle of the night for this?"
"Nope. For your medical opinion."
Reaching down for his cane, House presses the end into the toe of his sneaker as he watches the dog's progress. It hadn't been obvious when it was sitting outside, but in the bright light of his kitchen the masses on the animal's right hind leg had become glaringly obvious. Watching it from behind now, he can see the raised hairless lumps protruding through the fur, the muscle tissue wasting away around them.
"What's the prognosis these days for advanced sarcomas on the hind-quarters?"
On the other end of the line, he hears another sigh, the rustle of hotel bed-sheets, maybe even the sound of a palm being applied to the eyes.
"House. It's three in the morning, and last time I checked, veterinary science wasn't one of my areas of expertise."
"But cancer is. You're Cancer Boy. Go Team Cancer. Dogs, big-eyed kiddies, what's the difference? You read all the stuff. Don't tell me you haven't picked up something about..."
"Fine. Mast cell sarcomas are pretty common in certain dog breeds, as far as I remember - boxers, retrievers, certain types of terriers - they tend to show up on the legs first. Are there a lot of them, big and small? Are they shiny?"
"Think magic mushrooms."
"Then they're pretty far advanced. Is there a halo of them, do they radiate outwards?"
"You mean like...mushrooms?"
"Ok, then I'd say it's pretty obvious why someone dumped it. Treatment at that stage is going to be pretty pointless, not to mention expensive. At best the dog'll lose a leg, at worst..." Wilson yawns, "At worst you're looking at paying two, maybe three K to treat an animal that'll only last you another couple of years. It's not hard to do the math. That's a complete set of Pro Titanium Titleists."
Reaching the doorway, the dog hesitates, licking its lips, and turns to look at him questioningly. Having eaten its way half way across his apartment, it suddenly seems reluctant to take the last few steps to freedom. As it stands in front of him, House can't help but notice the way its back paw hovers a few millimeters above the floor. The way its other leg is braced slightly inwards to keep it upright and steady. Frowning, he hesitates for a moment, before reaching out with his cane and gently pushing the door closed.
"Divorce has hardened you, Jimmy."
"Divorce took my Pro Titanium Titleists. Goodnight House."
vii.
House still doesn't like dogs, but he calls it 'Toby Sherman', because obscure literary references tend to irritate people.
He buys it a licence, because not to do so would be in direct violation of local law, but he refuses to walk it. When the exercise-obsessed red-head from the apartment next door kindly offers to take the animal with her on her early morning runs though, objecting seem pointless. Even on three legs, the dog can move at a brisk pace and, after the wound from the operation has healed over and the bandages are off, House can't help but be impressed at how little it seems to be affected by the total loss of a limb.
The first time he leaves it home alone all day, he returns to find the dog in the exact same position as he left it eight hours before: head on paws on the hard-wood floor, facing the apartment door. The dog-bed he felt obligated to buy after the amputation sits unused and hair-free by the side of the piano and, it isn't until he moves around the couch to get to it that House understands why. The next morning, when he drags it around in full view of the door, the dog steps obligingly inside and settles down with a grunt that almost forces a smile from him. Almost, but not quite.
He pities the dog, in the way that he would pity any creature that can't speak for itself, that can't yell and rage and rail against the injustice of a world that discards you when you can't function as well as you used to. He pities it for its oddness and unattractiveness, and for the long livid scar that will never fully cover with hair again and which seems to horrify children. He pities it and he patronises it. And sometimes, when he forgets, he scratches behind its ears.
He will never like it.