Chapter 3

"Git Along Little Doggie!"

Marty Owen had been sitting beside the brown dog's cage for half an hour. She'd watched the animal scarf down a tin dish filled with Kibbles 'n' Bits and empty another tin dish filled with water. Still, the animal pressed its scruffy body against the back wall of the cage and watched her suspiciously with dark and frightened eyes. Marty moved slowly, deliberately. She did not want to scare the animal any worse than it already was, and she did not care to be lunged at through the wire mesh and have a chunk taken out of her arm by the sharp yellow teeth.

When the vet's assistant had tried to subdue the dog to clean him up, the animal had turned hysterical and nearly choked himself to death with the noose. And so they had caged him instead. His matted hair stood out all over his body like a fright wig, and it looked as though a length of rope or an old leather collar of some kind was entangled in his matted ruff.

Marty held a handful of Meaty Bones. The biggest Meaty Bones Del Monte made. Marty turned the first Meaty Bone over and over in her fingers, very slowly. From the back of the cage, alert dark eyes moved with the action; up and down, back and forth, as the treat spun slowly. Marty's voice chanted softly, monotonously. "It's okay, boy. I know you're scared. But nobody's gonna hurt you … not ever again."

The dog had heard that litany before. He did not move. But the voice was mesmerizing, and the lure of the Meaty Bone was enticing. Gradually his head pulled away from the side of the cage, and his muzzle quivered at the smell. This was the first time he had actually eaten a meal in many months, and the want was still maddening. But he hesitated. A soft voice was often followed by a size eleven boot right where it hurt the most. He hung back, but continued to sniff the air. He had never tasted a Meaty Bone before.

Marty Owen purposely shifted position and turned her back on the cage. Leaned against it. Slid around on the floor and drew her knees up nearly to her chest. Pretended she did not know the dog was even there. But she was keenly aware of the sensitive nose sniffing with desire from the back wall of the tight enclosure, gathering in a bit more of the essence of the tempting treat. Marty began to sing in a little-girl voice:

"How much is that doggie in the win-dow?

The one with the wag-ga-lee tail …"

Marty was seventeen and a senior in high school. She was a quiet child, much more at home with animals and creatures than with school mates or other members of the human race. Marty was a redhead with bright blue eyes and a face full of freckles. Her fondest dream was to become a veterinarian like her friend Bernie. She came in to clean kennels and feed the animals in Bernie's hospital on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and sometimes on weekends if he needed her. The pay wasn't great, but she was learning a lot, and being able to bask in the company of all kinds of animals, almost made up for the meager wages.

"How much is that doggie in the win-dow?

I do hope that doggie's for sale …"

Behind her, Marty was aware of another stir of movement. She could hear the slight rustle of the shredded newspapers that lined the bottom of the cage, and she could feel, rather than see, the slow hesitation as the dog's muzzle stretched closer and closer to the wire at the front of the cage.

Very slowly she turned around again to face him, and eased her hand closer to the extended muzzle. "Would you like to have this, boy? It's all yours … all you've gotta do is come get it." Her voice was barely above a whisper, coaxing gently, elevating the timbre of her voice until it was entirely sing-song. "That's the good boy … good boy. Get the Meaty Bone. Come on, boy … here ya go …" She pushed the edge of the treat just inside the wire.

With surprising gentleness, a long tongue reached out in turn and the dog tilted its head sideways in the effort to squeeze its muzzle between the wires of the cage. "Hi there, fella," Marty cooed. "Want the Meaty Bone? Here it is … it's all yours. Good boy. Good … good boy!" With the tip of her thumb, Marty pushed the Meaty Bone through the front of the cage where it dropped at the dog's feet.

With a quick grab and a grating sound of teeth on solid object, the brown dog grabbed the bone and retreated again to the back of the cage. Marty watched him as his strong canines made short work of the Meaty Bone. "Good boy! That's a good boy …" She repeated it over and over in the attempt to have him okay with the sound of her voice.

When the second treat was gone, he stretched out his muzzle toward her and took another long sniff, begging for more, but still too wary to approach her position. Marty made clucking sounds in her throat, determined to lure him over. He sat and continued to sniff, but made no effort to come closer. She watched his ears as they moved back and forth, listening to her voice, and she began to see the animal intelligence emanating from the dark, yearning eyes. He knew there was one last Meaty Bone.

Marty turned around one more time and pressed her back into the mesh again. Ignoring him. Peaking his curiosity, maybe. Sat as still as stone, just to see what happened. Ten minutes passed without a sound. She was about to give up and let him alone to rest and think about it for a time. Then the newspaper rustled. Louder. The dog was getting to his feet. Moving. She could hear him resume his sniffing. Then his cold, wet nose was at the back of her neck. Nudging. Begging. At last!

Marty laughed softly and turned toward him. He was just standing there, a little nervous, head down, nearly cowering. But there at his butt … movement. His heavy, dirty, briar-encrusted tail had begun to wag, oh so slightly. He had finally decided she was not so scary after all.

"Good boy! Oh, you are such a good boy. Come here, boy … come on over and talk to me. That's a boy."

He pressed his head against the side of the cage and whined a little. Marty stuck two fingers through the wire and scratched the filthy ears, and he reached up to lick her fingers. She shoved the final Meaty Bone through the wire mesh.

An hour later she had him out of the cage and out of the misery of the pole and noose. He sat by her side panting and letting her pat his back and pull some of the tangled briars out of his coat. She caressed his face and let him lick her hands again, and then gradually she felt about his neck and tugged at the tight old collar, buried deeply in the fur.

It took some doing, but she finally picked away some of the matted undercoat and unfastened the rusted buckle from the collar. The leather came apart in her hands as she pulled it free; only his thick coat had been holding it in place around his neck. Old! There was the corner of a dog license still riveted in place near the buckle. "2002". He was at least four years old. Then she found a tin nameplate. Someone must have loved him once. Only half of the plate remained, but she could readily see what might have been his name:

"BAX---" And the crossbar of what was probably a "T".

"Bax? Bax? Is your name 'Baxter'?"

He angled his head at her, stared for a moment, and then looked away. No food, no interest. Licked his chops. Yawned. Curled his abomination of a tail and sat.

Maybe it was not his name. Or maybe it had been so long since he had heard it that he didn't even recognize it anymore.

"Baxter? Baxter! I guess that's your name, boy. Get used to it. Tomorrow we make you pretty for your friend the doctor …"

She was reluctant to put him back in the cage, but it was necessary.

She did, however, leave him with another Meaty Bone before she turned off the kennel lights and left for the evening.

oooooooooooooooooooo

James Wilson arrived at the hospital Wednesday morning at 6:00 a.m.

He'd called House's parents the evening before and talked to his mom for a few minutes. He told her it was useless for her and her husband to be on the road at night, but to wait until morning so Gregg would be awake and lucid. She had agreed, and they'd rung off.

Trying to get to sleep that night was a useless endeavor. He'd tossed and turned and glared at the alarm clock, and at 4:00 a.m., finally thought: The hell with it … and hit the shower five minutes later.

He pulled his Volvo into his designated parking stall, got out and practically ran up the front steps to the main entrance. The administrative floors were mostly deserted at this hour, except for Maintenance and Housekeeping finishing up their shifts, and a sleepy security guard patrolling his final night rounds.

James hurried to the elevator and punched the button for the third floor. Trauma Ward. The car couldn't move fast enough. He wanted to get the hell out, get underneath and push it! If he'd had any sense at all, he'd have stayed with House overnight!

He'd stopped by to see his friend after Gregg had come from surgery the evening before, but he was out like a light and pinned down with so many wires and IVs, he'd looked like a Christmas tree. The attending had told Wilson that House had come through the surgery pretty much okay. There had been no complications, but he was not to be disturbed … period … until the next day.

Wilson knew he could have pulled rank and raised hell and gotten in there anyway … I'm his prescribing physician … the man is my best friend … blah blah blah … but in the end, he had not pushed it. Instead, he stood at the doorway and looked at the frail body on the bed, cushioned with blankets and pillows, bandaged all the way up to here and oblivious to the world in general and his immediate surroundings in particular.

After a time, Wilson turned around and went home and spent one of the most restless nights of his entire life.

And now …

The elevator door slid open and he bailed down the corridor, his French loafers pounding softly along the spotless ceramic tiles.

Room 317.

House was in a private room now, in accordance with his status at the hospital… and also to spare any hapless roommate who might have the ill fortune to draw the short straw and have to share the room with him. No one in ill health deserved to listen to the line of venom sure to follow from that barbed tongue! The very thought made Wilson smile in spite of his worry.

He paused in the open doorway a moment, just watching his friend breathe and getting used to the idea that Gregg would survive all right. The right side of House's body was nearest the door, and the massive field of white Wilson saw, covered every inch of skin that normally would have been visible.

Wilson hitched a sharp breath, shocked at the sight, and winced slightly at the look of him. The right side of House's face was a tapestry of gauze and adhesive tape, part of it darkened with smudged blood which had seeped through during the night. His right hand looked something like a white football, only the tips of his fingers and thumb visible where the bandages left off. Wilson figured they must have splinted the break, rather than casting it, since his palm was probably stitched, and infection was always a threat. The injured hand was elevated on a pillow, and smudges of red tinged the edges of the gauze here also, where they had not taped it fast.

His leg was a whole other story. It was elevated in a sling contraption which Wilson had seen a lot of on the Trauma Ward, but never thought to see strapped to his best friend. The bandages reached from high on House's thigh and extended all the way to his ankle. There was a heavy white sock on his foot and his knee was bent very slightly. Wilson knew that had probably been done to relieve some of the tension on the crippled leg, which House often had trouble straightening completely, even as a general rule. A mist-green PPTH sheet covered most of his body to the waist, except where it was tucked around the leg sling. The coverings on the leg wound were mainly gauze padding, loosely wrapped with wide elastic bandages. Wilson knew that if House's bad leg was held immobile, however briefly, it would cause him excruciating pain, and he would have that to contend with as well as the fresh injury. Wilson hoped they would keep him doped to the gills while this contraption needed to be in place, or House would be screaming; cursing God, Allah, Confucius, the Devil, and anyone else within hearing distance.

Quietly he stepped into the room and drew up a chair to the side of the bed. He listened to his friend's breathing with a doctor's ear and scanned the monitors along the wall with a doctor's eye. The IV bags were good, the Foley nearly fresh, and the morphine drip was set to 40mg. The pulse ox was on his left index finger, a BP cuff on his left arm. Nasal cannula inserted. House seemed to be resting comfortably.

James Wilson took a deep breath and relaxed at last. Prepared himself to settle in for the entire day if he had to.

Wilson leaned back in the visitor's chair and catnapped, awaiting the arrival of House's parents … or his friend's return to consciousness … or shift change … whichever came first.

Shifts changed around seven, and fresh personnel went to work replenishing the IVs, adjusting the morphine drip, backing the dosage off a little; changing the Foley bag and the 02. At 8:00 a.m., Norm Lyons, Orthopedist, stopped by to check House's hand and leg. A nurse gently cut away the bandages from around the splint with scissors and swabbed fresh antiseptic; got ready to change the gauze pads. The swelling had gone down some, but the injury's raw appearance was still bothersome. She swabbed the stitches with antiseptic yet again, but did not disturb the hand's position other than to pull the soiled bandages away. Norm Lyons supervised the redressing procedure and pronounced it satisfactory.

Wilson listened closely when Lyons was joined by one of the trauma surgeons and the two of them paused near House's bedside to compare notes. They were ready to change the bandages on House's leg and on his face. Wilson nodded greetings to the two men as they went to work, but stayed out of the way. They knew what they were doing. He noticed that the young trauma doc handled Gregory House with new respect, and wondered momentarily what had made the difference.

When they removed the bandages from the side of House's face, it was decided to leave them off. Two areas where tiny stitches darkened the skin would probably do better if exposed to air. They swabbed the side of his face, now darkening to deep purple bruises, and then left them alone. House's right eye was as black as a tire, its lid swollen. The side of his nose was mottled with more bruising, and his high cheekbones and temple still resembled a bad case of Poison Ivy. Down along his jaw line, spots of dried blood had been swabbed from his famous stubble, but fresh seepage welled up again. They decided to let that alone also in hopes that it would clot more quickly in the air.

At last, they released his leg from the sling and lowered it gently to the bed, positioned it on pillows and drew away the elastic bandages. The wound was not as serious as Wilson had first thought. The lacerated skin had been closed with butterflies, rather than conventional stitches, and though the local swelling remained intimidating, the wound looked clean, its edges joined completely with no blood leakage. Wilson's only worry was how close it had come to the big infarction scar. He lifted his head and turned a questioning glance toward Norm Lyons.

Lyons caught the look and nodded encouragingly. "It didn't enter the area of the scar tissue," he said. "It came close, but it should heal without complications other than a couple of months of 'pain-in-the-ass' stiffness … and if I know House, he won't come within a mile of the P. T. rooms … unless dragged!"

Wilson could only smile bleakly. How true! He watched while a nurse came in, took instructions from Lyons, then daubed the wound with antiseptic and covered the leg with gauze pads and adhesive tape to hold it. When she left, she took the elastic bandages with her, presumably to discard them.

About 8:30, House began to stir restlessly. He moaned and made an effort to shift his leg, then cried out in pain; tried to reach down to it with his injured hand. Wilson sprang to his bedside, closed gentle fingers around the bony wrist and cradled the damaged limb protectively. With his other hand he summoned the nurse.

House was waking.

"Whoa! Whoa! Stop it, House … Dammit! Keep still! You're going to hurt yourself more!" Wilson bent over the bed, using his entire body to block his friend's restless movements.

Two nurses came around the corner from the corridor, one of them with a syringe in her hand. They tried off the vein, swabbed the area and rammed it in. Ten seconds. House's body stilled. Groggily he looked up at Wilson, backing off now. "What … happened?"

"Easy!" Wilson cautioned. "Try to relax." He held the broken hand gingerly between his own; raised it to House's eye level so he could see it. "I think they backed off your morphine a little too far. Ride with it a moment! They're taking the level back up. I told them you couldn't tolerate not being able to shift your leg. I guess they didn't quite believe me."

Gregg House stared down at his throbbing bandaged hand and then back to the man who held it, trying to glare, but wincing when the skin on his bruised face pulled painfully. "Did all this crap happen … when the car went through the guard rail? Was I trying to skate on the side of my fucking head?" He paused to examine his position in the bed and assess the extent of his injuries. His mind would not cooperate. He felt himself beginning to float; felt the room tilting. He snorted in disgust, then winced at the action. "Ow-ow! Fuck!"

Both nurses, rechecking his vitals and the IVs, stood back, half alarmed. House glared at them, bleary eyed. "Don't you people have somewhere to be besides harassing a … poor fucked-up cripple?"

Both nurses gathered their paraphernalia and hurried out of the room.

Wilson stood grinning, feeling suddenly buoyed by the relief that stole over him. "For God's sake, House! Go back to sleep!" He placed Gregg's hand gently back on the pillow as the blue eyes fell closed again.

This time he knew he would be there all night.

oooooooooooooooooooo

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