Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom

by James Howe

  Howie looked around to see who was there. He waited patiently for the author to figure it out.

  Suddenly, Hoppy hopped into view! Well, barely into view. Remember, there wasn’t much light.

  “Hoppy!” Howie said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hoppy is here to help you, sir, and to provide a plot twist at a crucial moment.”

  CHAPTER 8:

  “THE TERRIFYING TRANSFORMATION”

  “But, Hoppy,” said Howie, the thoughtful and considerate, even when his own life was in danger, dachshund, “you could be hurt! You could even be—”

  “Transformed into a toaster oven!” bellowed The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke. There was a blinding flash of light, a deafening roar of thunder, a suffocating puff of smoke (fortunately, Howie was spared the slide show), and Hoppy was turned into a toaster oven!

  “How could you!” Howie cried out in alarm to The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke. “A toaster oven? You could have turned him into a microwave, at least!”

  “Is that what you’d like to be? Fine. Get ready to bake potatoes in just ten minutes!”

  There was a blinding flash of light, a deafening . . . oh, you get the picture.

  Howie squeezed his eyes shut, ready to spend the rest of his life as a kitchen appliance . . . and then it hit him! Not the spell that would turn him into a microwave, but the single word that would break The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke of his magic.

  “No!” Howie cried out. “Don’t do it—Herbert!”

  Light filled the Doghouse of Doom as The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke, hearing his true name, screamed an earsplitting scream. Howie watched in horror as the giant shape on the pod in the center of the Lake of Lost Illusions twisted and turned, finally exploding in a shower of sparks.

  Howie was forced to close his eyes. When he opened them again, he couldn’t believe what he saw!

  There, sitting on the pod thing, was a kitten.

  “Why, you’re nothing but a pussycat,” said Howie.

  “Yes,” said The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-Used-To-Be-Not-Able-To-Be-Spoke. “I was once a little pussycat who only wanted love and the occasional saucer of warm milk. But I was left by the side of the road to fend for myself and I turned mean and rotten. So mean and rotten that I picked on others. Your parents didn’t understand. They called me a bully. Okay, I was a bully, I admit it. But it was only because I was afraid of being the one who got picked on first.”

  Wow, Howie thought. This is even better than watching Oprah.

  Words appeared over Herbert’s head. They were written in red smoke. Or . . . was . . . it . . . ketchup?

  Thank you!

  “Gosh,” said Howie modestly and graciously, “you’re welcome.”

  “You have given me back my innocence,” said Herbert the kitten. “You have given me hope for a new and better life. You have given me—”

  “Whatever,” said Howie, suddenly remembering Hoppy, the toaster oven. “What about my friend? What are you going to do for him?”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” said Herbert. “You’ve already done that. Look, there in the water!”

  “Where are you, Hoppy?” Howie called out.

  A tiny voice answered, “Here Hoppy is, sir. Hoppy is happy, sir. Hoppy is where Hoppy always wanted to be, sir.”

  Howie looked into the water. A happy tadpole was swimming laps.

  “Goodbye, Hoppy,” Howie said.

  “Goodbye, sir,” said Hoppy “Hoppy will always remember you.”

  “Howie will always remember Hoppy, too,” said Howie, sniffing back a tear or two.

  Well, Howie thought as he watched Hoppy swim happily away, I guess I’d better paddle out to the pod and rescue Herbert

  “I heard that,” said the kitten.

  CHAPTER 9:

  “NOT SAFE YET!”

  When Howie emerged from the Doghouse of Doom with Herbert the kitten at his side, everyone cheered. Everyone, that is, but Baco, Grab, and Run, who threw their sign on the ground and stomped on it. Professor Sneak didn’t look too pleased, either. Howie decided there was something up about Sneak that would deserve greater attention in another book.

  In the meanwhile, he was exhausted. Snivel, Delilah, and several other students carried him on their shoulders to the hospital house, where he spent the next few days sleeping and reading back issues of Canine Quarterly. Hamlet visited him regularly and chatted up a storm, sometimes leaving apostrophes lying around on the floor, which had to be swept up after him. Delilah brought up homework assignments from their classes and told him how brave and daring, not to mention courageous, she thought he was. She also asked how his bursitis was. When she did, she fluttered her eyelashes and made his heart go pit-a-pat.

  Snivel brought him a box of doggie treats his mother had baked just for the famous, heroic, kind, and wizardly Howie Monroe in the shape of frogs—a nice touch, Howie thought, given how much he missed his friend Hoppy.

  Herbert sometimes dropped by to curl up next to him in bed and purr. Over time, Herbert lost his ability to read thoughts, which was a relief to Howie, who had grown tired of hearing Herbert say, “That’s what you think!”

  All in all, Howie was feeling pretty darn good about himself and how he’d handled his first week at the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers. The fact that he hadn’t actually conjured anything yet—except for a quarter, and anybody could do that—didn’t worry him. His full powers would come to him in time. He was looking forward to his years at Dogwiz, although not as much as he was looking forward to his next meal in the Chamber of Chow. A dinner was being planned in his honor, and he could hardly wait.

  Back in his own room for the first time in days, he was getting ready to go down to the dinner when a note was slipped under his door. Herbert batted it to him.

  It was written in letters that had been cut from what appeared to be issues of Preteen Conjurer. It read:

  “This is terrible!” Howie exclaimed.

  “No, it’s not,” said Herbert. “It will give you material for the sequel.”

  “You’re right, Herbert,” said Howie. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Herbert modestly.

  As the two friends went off to join Delilah and Snivel on their way to the Chamber of Chow, Howie was already thinking about his next adventure at the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers—

  Howie Monroe and the Enchanted Chew Bone

  THE END?

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Delilah read my story and said, “You call that writing? You stole your idea from that book you told me Toby’s been reading to you!”

  I think she’s just sore because she has such a small part in the story.

  I asked uncle Harold what he thought.

  “oh, that’s why it all seemed so familiar!” he said. “I don’t know, Howie, you might want to be sure it’s okay with your editor to–”

  “Steal?” I said.

  “Ask your editor,” he told me.

  Great. Now I’m a thief!

  Dear Editor:

  Here is the manuscript of my latest book. I hope you like it and don’t think I’m stealing. If you don’t like it or if you do think I’m stealing, please don’t tell me, because it will mean you won’t publish my book and then I will have to go back to not being famous.

  Sincerely yours,

  Howie Monroe

  Dear Howie Monroe:

  I love your new book and can’t wait to publish it. It is a terrific parody.

  Yours truly,

  The Editor

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  par-o-dy/n: writing in which the language and style of an author or work is imitated for comic effect

  Comic effect?! This is a serious work of fiction!!!! I Can’t believe my editor would call it a parody!

  I asked uncle Harold if I should let the editor publish my book if he doesn’t even recognize it for what it is!

  “Do you w
ant to go back to not being famous?” Uncle Harold asked me.

  Good point.

  “Another way to look at it,” he went on, “is that you were inspired by someone else’s writing to create something original. Maybe your readers will be inspired by you.”

  Wow. That would be so cool. Hey, maybe my readers will write Howie Monroe and the Enchanted Chew Bone! Then I wouldn’t have to. Not that I don’t want to, but, I don’t know, I might want to try something really different next time.

  Meanwhile, I think it’s time for me to take a nap. I’ve been up for way more than two hours – almost three – and I’m beat! This writing is hard work!

  More from this Series

  Screaming Mummies of the…

  Book 4

  Bud Barkin, Private Eye

  Book 5

  The Odorous Adventures…

  Book 6

  It Came from Beneath the…

  Book 1

  More from the Author

  Teddy Bear's Scrapbook

  Keep reading for a preview of

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh's Tomb II

  by

  James Howe

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  I’m never going to write again!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Uncle Harold, who is this really smart dog I live with who’s written all these books about our rabbit, Bunnicula, who our cat, Chester (who is also really smart), says is a vampire because . . .

  I forget what I was trying to say.

  Proof! I can’t write! I’m never going to write again!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Oh, now I remember.

  Uncle Harold (who isn’t really my uncle, I just call him that) says that he’s gotten lots of bad reviews and that I shouldn’t let one bad review get to me. Ha! Easy for him to say. He’s been writing for a katrillion years and his books have sold a katrillion copies, even if he has gotten some stinko reviews. But I’ve written only three books. I’ve just gotten started. Nobody will want to read my books after what Canine Quarterly – my former favorite magazine in the whole world!!! – had to say:

  Howie Monroe writes with energy and a sense of humor, but he is a literary lightweight. Pack his books to while away the time when you’re going for an extended stay at the kennel, but don’t be looking for him to win the Newbony Award any time soon.

  A literary lightweight!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Would a literary lightweight know how to use as many adjectives as I do? Or–exclamation points!!!?

  Oh, what’s the use? If I’m never going to win the Newbony Award, why should I even bother to write?

  I wonder what the Newbony Award is.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  My friend Delilah, who is this beautiful and REALLY SMART dog who lives down the street and happens to be one of my best friends in the whole world and is maybe even my girlfriend, although I’ve never told her that, not in so many words, anyway, well, Delilah said the Newbony Award is about the biggest award a book can be given. She said her owner, Amber Faye Gorbish, reads Newbony books all the time. I told her Pete, who is Amber’s boyfriend and one of the two boys who lives in the house with me (Toby is the other one), reads stuff like the Flesh–Crawler books by M. T. Graves. Those books are soooooo cool. My favorite is #28: Screaming mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb. It’s about these twins who find a time-travel machine their grandfather’s attic and . . .

  Anyway, Delilah said that books with titles like Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb never win the Newbony Award. I asked her what does win. She thought about it for a long time.

  “Books that are sad,” she said finally. “And take place a long time ago.”

  “Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb takes place a long time ago,” I pointed out. “And it’s sad. Especially the part where the screaming mummies crumble into about a katrillion pounds of dust.”

  Delilah gave me a look. “It also helps if the characters are poor and somebody dies,” she went on. “or if the main character, usually a child and preferably an orphan, goe, on a long journey. Alone oh, and it should be a book girls will like.”

  A story started taking shape in my mind. (It’s amazing that happens when you’re a writer.) I pictured a poor (but cute) dachshund puppy, without a penny or a parent to call his own, setting off in search of . . . something . . . and it’s a long time ago, like last week, maybe, and . . . somebody dies.

  I told Delilah.

  “You need help,” she said. “I’ve read a lot of Newbony books. Maybe we could write the book together.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked that idea. I’ve never written with somebody else. Besides, I wanted to win the Newbony myself. But then, I figured, half a Newbony is better than none.

  “okay,” I said. “But can it still be about a poor (but cute) puppy? And could he be named Howie Monroe?”

  Delilah didn’t love that idea, but I reminded her that I am a published author, so I should get some say.

  “okay,” she said, “as long as his friend–a girl puppy named Delilah–has an important part.”

  “Deal,” I told her.

  Newbony Award, here we come!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Walk Two Bones

  The Journey of a Poor (but Cute) Puppy Who Lived Long Ago (and Was Also an Orphan)

  By Howie Monroe & Delilah Gorbish

  CHAPTER 1:

  “REMEMBERING”

  Howie Monroe, a lonely puppy who had no home, gazed sadly at his reflection in the pond. It was a hot summer day long ago when people (and puppies) were poor and the air was full of dust and yearning. Howie, seeing his haggard, yet strong and incredibly hand some, face, yearned for a chicken bone.

  “That’s all I ask,” Howie said to no one but the swirling dust and rippling water, “just a chicken bone with maybe a little meat on it to give me strength for my journey.”

  He thought back to how his journey had begun. It had been only days, yet it felt like years.

  He had been happy once, but that was before the story started. Now he needed to be sad so whoever gave out the Ncwbony Award would take him seriously. He remembered frolicking with his brothers and sisters on the back forty behind the little house on the prairie where they lived with Ma and Pa Monroe and their sons, Peter and Tobias. Cows mooed contentedly about them, as lambs wobbled on their spindly legs.

  “Be careful not to knock over any of the lambs wobbling on their spindly legs,” Howie’s mother advised him. She was wise and smart, just as Howie would grow up to be.

  “I’ll be careful, Mother,” the sweet and affectionate Howie replied.

  Howie rolled over in the clover, sniffing the sweet summer air. Suddenly he sniffed something that made him worry. Was it . . . could it be . . . ?

  Yes! There was a change in the air. The cows stopped their mooing. The lambs stopped their wobbling. The puppies stopped their frolicking.

  “Run!” Howie’s mother cried out in alarm. “It’s a tornado!”

  Howie didn’t have time to wonder where his father was. He figured he probably wasn’t in the story at all, since most characters in Ncwbony books didn’t have a father. Or a mother. Or both.

  Ma and Pa Monroe were running toward them, desperate to save the animals who . . . whom . . . who . . . whom they loved as much as their own sons.

  Howie, who was powerfully strong and whose little legs moved faster than the wind itself, made it to the storm cellar just in time.

  “Hurry!” he called to his family, but the door swung shut just as they reached it!

  “Oh, no!” Howie cried out.

  He was alone in the darkness. He sniffed around until his nose hit a strange object he had never seen before. As the storm raged above him, Howie asked himself, “What could this be?”

  Suddenly it hit him!

  It was a time machine!

  Continue Reading…

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh's Tomb II

  James Howe

  JAMES HOWE never thought he would write for a living, si
nce writing was too much fun to be considered a job. Many books and awards later, his story has turned out to be slightly different from what he expected. Mr. Howe is the author of the beloved Bunnicula books and the Pinky and Rex series. He has also written Morgan’s Zoo, A Night Without Stars, Stage Fright, and There’s a Dragon in My Sleeping Bag. Mr. Howe lives in New York State.

  Visit him online at JamesHowe.com

  Tales from the House of Bunnicula Books by James Howe:

  It Came from Beneath the Bed!

  Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteriod 6!

  Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom

  Screaming Mummies of the Pharaoh’s Tomb II

  Bud Barkin, Private Eye

  The Odorous Adventures of Stinky Dog

  Other Bunnicula Books by James Howe:

  Bunnicula (with Deborah Howe)

  Howliday Inn

  The Celery Stalks at Midnight

  Nighty-Nightmare

  Return to Howliday Inn

  Bunnicula Strikes Again!

  Bunnicula’s Pleasantly Perplexing Puzzles

  Bunnicula’s Long-Lasting-Laugh-Alouds

  Bunnicula’s Frightfully Fabulous Factoids

  Bunnicula’s Wickedly Wacky Word Games

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.