House has heard of dogs going for help. Heard of guide dogs, seizure dogs, Parkinson's dogs, every-kind-of-aid dogs.
Hard not to have heard of that. Every other fluff column in the papers is something like that, seems like.
But not so much cats.
Which is why he's really annoyed when he turns out to have the only Lassie cat that he's ever heard of.
Wilson didn't even *say* why he wanted to sleep on house's couch.
House hadn't cared, had just said sure whatever.
That was before his leg had decided it was going to give him hell this weekend.
He had been fighting against unconsciousness pretty much all morning, when Deathcat—he refused to call her *Debbie* of all things, and Deathcat was a cool name, that she did actually answer to—nudged her way out through his bedroom door.
Twenty seconds later, he'd heard a surprised yelp.
Forty seconds later, Deathcat had woven her way back into his room, stopped, looked back, then continued in as Wilson followed her.
House had gritted his teeth, and wondered what the hell he'd done to deserve a *cat* that couldn't keep a secret.