The Feline Persuasion

House, M.D.

MK

Gen

House buys a cat. Not the cute, cuddly variety of kitten found littering pet-shop windows in malls across the country, but an angry, vicious tom-cat he picked up at the Humane Society. It has a full set of claws and immediately sets about sharpening them on every available surface of his apartment. House rather likes it.

When Wilson visits, the cat creeps under the couch in a low slink, head brushing the floor and rear end raised as though he were thinking of attacking those shiny French shoes. It takes two hours to crawl out from under the couch, and by then Wilson is thoroughly sucked into America's Next Top Model and on his third beer. House doesn't say anything, but watches it creep across the floor heading straight for the shoes.

Surprisingly, Wilson doesn't get upset over the shoes, instead saying something about how they weren't as suited to their intended purpose as he thought. House imagines a large-breasted red-head who, unlike most women, doesn't care about shoes. "Who knows," Wilson says, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking down at the tattered remains of French leather, "maybe it's a psychological response to not having a name yet."

"Brilliant work, Dr. Doolittle! Did you deduce that from a deep, heart-wrenching conversation with it?"

"No, I deduced it from the way he peed in your shower."

House spends the next day watching General Hospital and thinking up cat names, but doesn't give Wilson the satisfaction of knowing he's picked one for a week longer.

Snuggles escapes at three in the morning on a Tuesday. House wakes hot and itchy, his leg trying to crawl out of his skin, and opens a window in desperation, slouching into the couch and eventually sleeping again. When he wakes, Snuggles is gone and the curtains have been shredded. His mind fills instantly and embarrassingly with statistics about how long outdoor cats live compared to indoor cats (the numbers are something like the life expectancies of Wilson's patients versus his own).

He debates for awhile about whether or not to close the window and cut off what is possibly Snuggles' only entrance back into the apartment. The arguments are cut short on both sides when the building manager knocks at the door.

"Your cat," and he says the word like the epithet it probably is when applied to Snuggles, "has seen fit to deliver you a present. Keep it locked up, Dr. House, and get this cleaned."

Snuggles looks self-satisfied, cleaning one paw and pointedly not looking at the gruesomely dissected robin splayed bloody and broken in his doorway.

"I'm in love," House says later as he walks unannounced into Wilson's office. Wilson rolls his eyes but sets down his pen.

"I keep telling you, but you never listen. Justin Timberlake will never give up his career for you."

"But he's so pretty!" House grins. "No, I'm in love with Snuggles. His presents are so, so much better than yours."

"I buy you presents?"

"Well, you should."

Two weeks later, House leaves Snuggles' latest offering on Cuddy's desk.