Kindred Spirits
"You nervous, Doc?" Clarence places a hefty paw on House's shoulder.
Lanky man sits up straighter on the wheeled stool Wilson 'borrowed' from the clinic, his muscle tone finally sufficient for upholding own body weight. Clammy sweat is rubbed from open palm over the rough denim jeans. "Guards employed German Sheppard's." He admits.
"This one is a Retriever." Wilson reassures.
Noise of building's door opened is only audible to House. "They're here."
On the sound of buzzing bell, Wilson allows someone in. "Hello miss Costello." He greets.
"Please call me Maggie." Answers a genuinely friendly soprano. "You must be Greg."
House winces at the sudden shift from absolute strangers to first name basis. "Please call me doctor House." He returns.
"Oh." Maggie appears surprised, upset perhaps. "Sorry."
"Why don't you, ah, introduce the two…" Wilson breaks the odd moment.
"Of course. Come Goldie." She guides the dog in, a quartet of paws tapping rhythmically over hardwood. "Heel."
Tapping stops at his feet.
"Sit. Good girl." Maggie praises. "Doctor House, this is Goldie. Goldie this is doctor House. Give him your paw."
A furry limb lands on his knee, House feeling idiotic for shaking the dog's leg, a gesture of no significance among usually unarmed humans, let alone between a human and animal.
"Would it be okay if she sniffs you out?"
He nodds.
"Sniff doctor House, Goldie."
The dog brushes at the hem of trouser leggings, suddenly hopping on Greg's thighs, warm breath blown in his face.
"NO!"
Wilson's warning comes to late as House flinches in startled fear. Arms up to protect his head in a split second, cast striking the dog's jaw. Balance gone, Clarence's strong hold is the only thing keeping him from falling over on his back. Weight is gone form his legs as whimpery yelps cower behind the sofa. House pushes against the armchair, propelling himself into the kitchen.
"Come back, House." Wilson follwos after him. "It's just an accident, no big deal."
Hose huffs but tries again, returning slowly, a look of apology on his face.
"It's okay, mister." There's nothing negative in Maggie's tone. "She was more surprised than hurt."
Sniffing is back in Greg's immediate vicinity. Eager panting repeats itself like a broken record from below House's feet, so close to the ground he can just picture it leaning on front paws, tail a hairy banner waving joyous in the air. The thing's eagerness to serve brings back chilling memories.
"No." A gravely whisper breaks impatient silence, and he can well imagine their responses: Wilson's exasperated roll of eyes, Clarence's brief 'told you so' glance, and the trainee's indifferent shrug.
"I'm sorry to waste your time." Wilson guides Maggie to the door, Goldie in tow.
"That's all right. Hope you find a match, sir." The young woman addresses House.
He nods, arm raised in farewell. Greetings are exchanged between other people but he is too far gone in defeatist thoughts to take notice. Finally a clang of bolt marks the closing of door.
"That's the seventh dog you refused." Wilson's patience is dangerously frail.
"Stop looking for eager to please." Blind man's stare punctuates the hoarse reply.
"They're eager by nature, they're hand picked that way." Wilson insists. "And the training emphasizes that trait."
"It's too damn… unnatural." He replies. "I want something real. Something that doesn't feel… brainwashed."
"How bout we train one ourselves?" Clarence suggests.
House recalls a pup he and some other army brats once took care of at Al Qahirah airbase, its playful nature drawing his self deprecating streak to the fore. He feels himself unable to inflict his barely sane reactions on something with such zest for life and so shakes his head.
"What, you want to pick one from the kennel?" Wilson is sarcastic.
The thought, never occurring to House, suddenly strikes him with absolute appropriateness. "Yes."
"You can't be serious."
"It won't hurt to look?" Clarence mediates.
"I suppose not." Wilson agrees, fetching the car keys. "I'll drive over, you get the wheel chair." He directs while leaving.
Very soon, House is riding in the back seat, Wilson driving and Clarence shotgun. The trip is shorter than he expects, only a few minutes to the heart of downtown. Settled in the unfolded chair, House is wheeled up a bumpy step by the large orderly, feet platforms pushing the double doors open.
"What can I do for you gentlemen?" Speaks a mature, polite baritone.
"We came to see some dogs." House takes over the matter.
"I'm afraid none of these are suited for seeing-eye work."
"I was thinking more of a guard dog." He counters.
"In that case we have two, no, three animals you might like."
"Show me."
Hinges squeal as the man steps out, the frequency and pitch of taps indicative of medium height and weight. "Having trouble with paparazzi?" The keeper inquires casually, informing that he had recognized House but also that he has no intention of bugging him.
"Among other things." House does not volunteer info as he tags along, but is grateful to have run into a sane person.
"This is a two year husky." The man explains. "He's got great character, trained to obey basic commands, noting special for handicapped I'm afraid. Good smell and hearing as far as watchdog abilities go."
"How did he get here?" Wilson is curious.
"A family brought him in after realizing he's to big for their tastes. Happens too many times."
House nods with approval. "Next one?"
"Dalmatian and Great Dane hybrid. A stray, probably thrown out as a pup by a professional breeder. In all honesty it does look hideous."
"I don't mind." House states off-handed.
"Totally untrained unfortunately, but if all you need is someone to scare away potential threats, a little care will make this one utterly loyal. Plus she's got the Dalmatian's good health."
"Are Danes those massive dogs?"
"Tall, but not massive."
"Maybe something a bit more intimidating."
"Last one is a poorly trained Mastiff." The keeper is regretful, having spent the best first. "He's accustomed to boss around and for you… I don't think that will work."
House blows a raspberry half way between frustrated and resigned. Then his ears pick up a set of heavy paws on concrete, but the eager barking coming from its direction is not deep as one would expect for a dog that big. "Do you have any others?" He asks with no expectations.
"Well…" The keeper is not too happy to reply. "We have one no one was interested in."
"Not a cute little pup?" Infers House.
"More like huge nervous beast." He explains.
The description strikes a chord in House. "Show me."
"Whatever you say." His tone is all but enthusiastic.
House grabs the wheels and follows the grating of sneakers on gravel, Clarence and Wilson in tow. As the man stops, he stops too, but can't hear a sound from the cage. "Description."
"One year old Saint Willey male. Saint Bernard and Rottwiler. Six feet long from nose to tail tip, five in body length, three feet tall in the head, two at the spine, two hundred pounds, bone crushing bite and hair-trigger nerves."
House squints. "Abused?"
"Owner brought him in to be put to sleep for biting him. Turned out the dog was trained for fighting but his docile nature clashed with the task. When he finaly grew sick of the abuse, he attacked in self defense. But he's never been anything but harmless since coming here."
"Why would anyone breed a Saint Bernard for fighting?" Wilson is confused.
"Probably for mass, poor guy was fed steroids from what we can tell."
"His response…" House leans the head to the wall of cages. "Fight or flight?"
"Frieze. Can't you hear?"
"Just making sure." House 'looks' to his lap, thoughtful. "Open the cage." He spins in place to face the cell.
"Sir?"
"Doctor." Calmly he corrects. "Open."
Clack of locket precedes rumble of little metal wheels. The dog itself makes no sound, no move.
"Behind me." House orders quietly. "Everyone."
"House -"
"Hush!" He turns to Wilson.
Footsteps retreat, Clarence directly behind, feet apart as he stands poised like a body guard, Wilson and keeper at the giant's flanks.
"Asustado?" House asks the dog if he's afraid, face and eyes both aimed straight ahead, a foot above the animal to avoid a frightering or challenging stare. "No se. No soy peligroso." He assures there is no danger. "Soy inofensivo, desamparado."
House can only assume curiosity and bewilderment from the other three men, but there is a method to his excentric approach. The dog had only bad experiences with English, a hard, Germanic language, so maybe a soft Romanic one would break the spell, set the slate clean for a fresh start.
And just as he hopes, paws clack on concrete as the dog stands up in its cage, turning to him.
"Necesito ayuda." He admits need. "Usted ayudad?" The tone beckons.
The dog steps forward hesitantly, sniffing his feet and wheelchair, wet nose brushing hands still on steel rings. Paws land on blanket draped knees as the dog comes face to face with House, unsanitary breath blown to his nose.
With geological slowness House brings his hands from the rings. "Relajese." Knuckles meet lower jaw, closed tense. Up the bone he moves, careful to avoid sensitive areas like eyes and neck. Bony fingers of one hand scratch behind upright ears, making them droop in relaxation. The other strokes along spine, feeling scars from whip lashing under long, thick fur. "What does it look like?" House asks, nigh all attention given to the animal.
"Pretty nice really. Black back and head, except for white muzzle and brown stains between. White paws, shins and belly. Brown thighs and tail. White tail tip. Almost like an over-grown Beagle."
House grins a little. "Perfecto."
