Chapter 10

"A Bit of House and Baxter"

Wilson and Foreman stood at the doorway of House's room. Baxter sat at their feet. The dog was bored. He licked his chops and looked around at the strange sights, and smelled the strange smells. He sniffed, blinked, wondered what in the world these humans were up to now. His ears were working back and forth again, just like those fork-lift gears.

"Well," Foreman whispered in Wilson's ear, "whaddaya think?"

Inside the room, House lay quietly on his bed. His bandaged leg was propped on its pillow, his splinted hand again cradled at his left elbow. He was not asleep. Wilson could see the fingers of his left hand keeping time on the mattress to some obscure syncopated rhythm in his head. He was waiting for his ice cream. In another two to three minutes he would begin to get pissy again. This was the real world, after all, and House was House.

Wilson nodded and slid the glass door open. Foreman removed the leash and gave a push to Baxter's rump.

"Go get 'im, boy!" He whispered. He and Wilson retreated behind the closed vertical panels to wait and see what happened.

Nothing.

Baxter stood bewildered, looking around.

Okay, guys … what am I s'posed to do now? Is this a game? If it is, fine, but I don't think I understand the rules …

House had heard the door open and close. He turned his head slightly to the right. "Hey! Wilson? It's about time! You got my ice cr … what the hell?"

House and Baxter were face to face, and it was a glaring standoff.

"Wil-son-n-n! There's a damned dog in my room!"

Wilson bit down on his lip and clenched his eyes tightly shut, but he did not rise to the bait. "Handle it, House!" He whispered, suddenly tempted to giggle like a girl.

Beside him, Foreman snickered into his palm and placed his other hand supportively on Wilson's shoulder. "E-e-e-zy boy!" Also a whisper.

They waited and watched, shoulders shaking helplessly.

Baxter walked over and sat down by the foot of the bed. He looked up at the grizzled apparition which glared back at him. Bored. Blasé. Disinterested.

Am I supposed to be afraid of you? You don't scare me much. There's no size eleven boot on your foot, so you can't kick me. You got any food?

No answer. Just the glare from angry human eyes. Baxter looked around the expanse of the room. Nothing was familiar. He had seen the strange soft platforms upon which humans liked to rest … had enjoyed the softness of them himself a few times … until that booted foot he still remembered kicked him unceremoniously onto the floor. But this one was different. It was very high off the floor. Too many things stuck out all over it. And it smelled really bad.

Baxter sneezed. Oof! Sneezed again. Something strange … familiar … came through with the odor this time. Something he had smelled before had been similar to this! What was it? He continued to sniff the strangeness of it. Then he got up and walked about the room, nose still raised into the air.

Have we met?

The steely gaze of the human on the bed followed him closely. There was something that spoke of menace in that stare. Dark fury. A threat. But it was also a bluff! This human was about as dangerous as the dead rabbit he'd found in the middle of the road once. Enticing, but squashed flat and inedible. And it was too dead to threaten him. Was the human dying?

Baxter finished his circuit of the room and sat down closer to the bedside this time. He was not in the least intimidated. Far from it. Something was wrong with this human. It was injured and in pain and trying not to show it. He could smell the pheromones of its pain, even as they mingled with the other smells that humans often deluged upon themselves.

Something hazy reached out with probing fingers, picking intermittently at Baxter's simple mind and toying with his confused senses. Something barely visible within his memory called to him from far away and niggled at his meager thinking processes. Baxter was puzzled. Curious. He cocked his head and stared at the injured human.

The human continued to watch and stare silently in return. Anger was gradually replaced by his own curiosity. Presently a frown of inquisition replaced even the curiosity. A need to know! Baxter met the intense gaze and found it difficult to look away. He could feel an urgent desperation for knowledge and information.

From the human!

And from himself!

Baxter licked his chops nervously and finally averted his eyes. The intensity of the penetrating look had continued far too long, pinning him to the spot; compelling him to raise his eyes again and look where the gaze commanded.

Brightness! Brightness wiped away the irritation of prickled nerves. And then something else began to emerge. Wonder … empathy … astonishment.

And recognition!

At that moment, Baxter knew. The dying human in the field! The scent was different, and yet, the same. It had been masked by something more recent that hovered overtop of it with a fragile delicacy.

The human knew also. They were of one mind.

"You're that crummy mutt from the culvert! You stuck your goddamn dirty nose in my ear … licked my neck with your germy tongue! Christ! Wilson brought you in here? When I see him, I'm gonna rip him limb from limb! God only knows where you had your scuzzy snoot before that!"

Baxter yawned.

You sure talk a lot for a sick human! But you don't SAY anything! Am I still supposed to be scared of you like … from before? You can't move from there … so guess what! I'm NOT!

Gregory House could feel the agitation building. He wanted to smack Wilson … and kick the dog until it ran yelping from his presence with its tail between its legs. He needed to stamp his foot and pace the floor, throw his hands in the air and shout his frustration to the world. Instead, he was a prisoner in a hospital bed, not able to do any of the above.

He felt restricted; smothered. He was being buried alive beneath his own helplessness, and restrained by the disability and crippledness of his current situation. And the able-bodied dog sat beside his bed with a smug, holier-than-thou look on its long, frizzy bewhiskered face. Life wasn't fair!

An impending sense of horror began to build suddenly, restricting his breathing, and he recognized the symptoms in his physician's mind as blind panic. He must not allow it to surface. He held his breath and fought the dread, but it held him in thrall. Slave to the strangling grip of his own helplessness. He clenched his eyes closed and tried to ride it out. His hand throbbed and the thumping in his leg was a living agony. If he couldn't stop this, the pain meds would be useless and he would be screaming …

This was a dog. A dog, for chrissake!

Gregg hitched another breath, closed his eyes and held tight for a moment; relaxed his body by sheer force of will. Over the years he'd become an expert at it.

Stop this!

His next breath left his throat in a shudder of silent sobs. He looked quickly toward his left side and saw the dog rise onto its hind legs, front paws propped on the edge of his bed. The smooth, brown, furry face was somehow laced with a deep concern. It didn't look so grizzled and bewhiskered up close. A look of tenderness was on its face, like a mother bear with a cub. The brown eyes were almost moist as they looked at him. The shaggy ears were at the alert, and it was watching him closely in the kindest manner Gregg could imagine. His head swam.

He gulped, panting. He was the animal here, and the dog was the compassionate one. Reminded him suddenly of Wilson. Wilson in a fur coat. Damn Wilson!

I know you're in there … I can hear you caring! His own words, months before, slammed into his consciousness. Almost made him smile.

The dog's ears perked forward, giving it an inquisitive look. Its head tilted, first one way, then the other, as though saying:

Okay, pal … I'm listening. What's on your mind?

Gregg House couldn't help himself. His mind released the anger; the panic. He allowed his head to relax back into the pillow and let the shadow of a smile warm his face. His expression was almost bashful at first, and then it grew with his sense of wonder.

"Think you got my number, do ya?"

Who? Me? I'm not trying to get your number. What does that mean? You're mistaking me for yourself! I sense that you are frightened. I was frightened too. How can I help?

"What the hell made you come up to me out in that field?"

I was just looking for something to eat!

"I was hurt … and bloodied. You smelled that, didn't you? You were going to try to take a bite out of me."

Well, that thought did occur to me …

"What changed your mind?"

'Cause you were just like me. Scared. Hurting. You thought you were gonna die there. Me too …

"But you stayed with me. Why?"

Same reason. We needed each other …

"No way! I didn't need you! I can't stand dogs!"

Would you feel better if I just said I needed you?

"I dunno … maybe. But I said … I don't like dogs. Damned things smell. Lift their legs and piss on the furniture. Chew up your socks, dig up the yard, bark their asses off and leave dog hair all over everything."

You're really mistaking me for somebody else …

"The Hell!"

How 'bout if I ask YOU a question?

"What?"

You could have just left me out there. You didn't owe me anything. The police would have just taken me to the pound and had me put to sleep. I growled at them and made them angry. But you asked your friends to bring me …

"I must have been delirious!"

You're not as mean as you want people to think!

"How would you know?"

Because I know I got to you!

"Like hell!"

Then what?

"Because you made them look under there. If you hadn't got their attention, I might be dead now. So I owed you. So what? Now we're even. You can go away anytime."

Nah … that's not the reason. I got to you! I'm not going anywhere. You're a pushover.

"Shit! Well, trust me, Bristleface … we're not going have any long-time love affair. When I wake up from this nightmare you're gonna be gone. Poof! Like a bad dream."

You think I'm just a dream then?

"Yeah. Aren't you?"

Nope!

"Can't prove it by me."

Can I get down from here now? I've been standing on my hind legs a long time, and it's starting to hurt …

"That's how I feel … every day!"

I'm sorry about that … really I am …but can I get down now?

"Yeah, I guess … No! Wait!"

What?

"Can you get up here beside me without jarring my leg or my hand? They're hurt. Bad. I won't be able to walk for a long time … and I'm …"

Oh hey … easy … I'm sorry.

"Christ! You even sound like Wilson!"

What's a Wilson?

"Never mind. Just get up here."

Okay. I will. Thanks …

The dog went down again on all fours. He walked around the bed for a moment to limber up.

In the hallway, Foreman looked at Wilson. "What's he doing?"

"I don't know. Just watch!"

They heard the elevator door open behind them. Both men turned to look.

"Uh oh …"

Cuddy, Cameron, Chase, Blythe and John House: coming closer. All of them jabbering at once!

The brown, stinky stuff was about to hit the fan …

"What are you boys doing crouched in the corridor?"

Foreman pointed a finger toward Gregg House's room.

Five pairs of hands parted five pairs of vertical slats. Five pairs of additional eyes paused to peer curiously in the direction Foreman was pointing.

Both he and Wilson had huge, self-satisfied smiles on their faces.

Breaths were drawn. Exclamations came from every awed throat.

"What the devil is going on in there? My God! It's Baxter!" Cuddy's voice was awed. Disbelieving. "I thought he got away. But hospital regulations …" She stopped; let it go. What she was seeing at this moment was something beyond all understanding.

Blythe House: "I knew I heard a dog barking …"

John House: "Who in the hell is Baxter? Is that a dog in Gregg's room?"

Cameron: "Oh Chase … LOOK!"

"I'm looking! And I don't believe it!"

Inside the room, the brown dog was curled tightly … comfortably … against Gregg House's good left side. Bax's chin lay protectively at Gregg's shoulder, exactly as he'd laid there in the culvert.

It was almost four o'clock in the morning. Gregory House had dropped off to sleep at last, the querulous request for ice cream, long forgotten. His injured right hand rested on Baxter's neck and half buried in Baxter's ruff. There was the ghost of a smile on his bewhiskered face. The two of them were somewhat of a match.

(If one looked close enough, one might have seen the smiles on both faces!)

oooooooooooooooooooo

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