Horace & Bunwinkle

by PJ Gardner

  Dedication

  To Charlie,

  who came up with the names

  Horace and Bunwinkle

  and kindly let me use them

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  1.The Homestead

  2.A New Family

  3.Pet-Tectives

  4.Dr. Schott

  5.A Royal Obligation

  6.Dr. Schwink

  7.A Real Mystery

  8.Dr. Schwank

  9.Petnapped

  10.The Search Begins

  11.They’re No Angels

  12.Scent Hound

  13.Rescue

  14.Home Again, Home Again

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  1

  The Homestead

  Horace Homer Higgins III was gravely ill. His head throbbed. His stomach ached. And his sniffer was clogged. This happened every time he rode in the car. Too many sights rushing by in a blur. Too many smells crowding up his nostrils. It was terribly unpleasant, and it made him oh so sick.

  To make matters worse, Eleanor—that was the name of his human—had forced him to wear the Big White Cone of Shame. It was enough to make a lesser dog hang his head. But not Horace. Horace was a Boston Terrier from New England. And New Englanders were always calm, composed, and courageous—just like Horace’s hero, the sixth president of the United States, John Quincy Adams.

  “Are you sure he’s not going to pass out?”

  The voice belonged to Eleanor’s friend Jennie. She was holding him in her lap while Eleanor drove. Normally, Horace loved to sit with Jennie. She always had a treat for him and smelled a bit like french fries. But today he was too upset to enjoy her.

  “He’s fine.” Eleanor laughed. “He’s just excited to get to his new house.”

  Horace’s body shook harder, this time with irritation. He was not excited. He’d been quite happy in the city. He didn’t want a house—he liked the little studio apartment they’d had. It was easy to guard Eleanor there; she was never out of his sight, except when she had to visit the privy. Plus he could nap and bark at the birds through the front window without ever having to get out of bed.

  “He’s going to love it out there.” Eleanor ran a hand down his back. “Aren’t you, baby boy?”

  Absolutely not.

  Horace swung his head toward the window, accidentally hitting Jennie in the face with the Big White Cone of Shame.

  “Can I take this thing off him?”

  Eleanor sighed. “Okay, but you’ll have to watch him. I didn’t put any ointment on his legs before we left.”

  Jennie freed him from the detestable device and tossed it onto the back seat.

  Oh, sweet relief. Now he could lie down in comfort. Horace pawed at Jennie’s legs, searching for a suitable place to situate his body, then turned around three times to make sure the spot was nice and soft. Once he had everything to his liking, he snuggled down until his sniffer rested on her knees, where the smell of french fries was strongest.

  “Why does he need the cone anyway?” Jennie asked.

  Eleanor glanced at him, her brown eyes filled with worry. Then she whispered, “O.L.D.”

  “What?”

  “Obsessive licking disorder—O.L.D. His last vet, Dr. Mallard, told me Horace has the worst case of it he’s ever seen.”

  Horace sniffed. Dr. Mallard didn’t know the first thing about dogs. He was always telling Eleanor to take Horace for a walk and to not feed him cheese. And he absolutely insisted that licking was wrong. What a quack! That was what dogs did; that’s how they got clean. And it was important to be clean. Cleanliness was next to dogliness.

  Jennie nodded, then yawned so wide Horace could see all her teeth. “Remind me again, why did we have to leave so early?”

  “I need to get out to my animals. My old friend Clary Hogland took care of them yesterday, but I don’t want to impose on her again.”

  Animals? Horace’s ears perked up. That didn’t sound good.

  “So you’re really going to milk goats and shear alpacas, huh?” Jennie grinned at her friend.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am,” Eleanor said.

  Goats? Alpacas? Horace shuddered. Where on earth was Eleanor taking him?

  A farm. That’s where she was taking him.

  He smelled it long before they turned off onto a gravel road and he saw horses in fields, before the pasture full of cows and stacks of hay overworked his sniffer and made his eyes water.

  Eleanor pulled into a gravel driveway and brought the car to a stop.

  His mouth fell open.

  “I’m calling it the Homestead,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve lost your mind.” Jennie laughed.

  Horace had to agree. The Homestead wasn’t much to look at—a barn, a run-down house, a few animal pens, and a chicken coop at the far end of the property. And dirt everywhere. He’d never be able to keep his fur shiny and clean here.

  And how on earth was he going to protect Eleanor? It was wide open. Anything could wander in at any time.

  It was truly the most depressing thing he’d ever seen. If he’d been a lesser dog, he would have cried.

  “The moving van will be here soon. Let’s unload the car,” Eleanor said, pulling her curly brown hair into a ponytail.

  The disgusting odors grew stronger when the car door opened. Horace gagged. His poor sniffer couldn’t take much more of this. He closed his eyes and buried his nose in Jennie’s leg.

  “Sorry, big guy, I’ve got to unload.”

  Horace crawled off her lap, curled up on the seat, and covered his nose with his paws. This was the worst day of his life.

  Jennie leaned close and whispered, “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Even if she did drag you out to the boonies.” Then she disappeared to help with the boxes.

  He sighed heavily and began licking his legs. A few minutes later, Eleanor scooped him up from the seat. “No more of that, Horace, or you’ll have to wear the cone.”

  Hmph.

  “Oh, don’t pout.” She kissed the side of his face. “Be a good boy and come see your new home.” She set him down on the front porch. “You’re going to love it even more than our old place. I promise.”

  Despite his misgivings, he followed her into the house. Jennie stood in the middle of the family room, a confused expression on her face.

  “Did it always look like this?”

  Eleanor smiled. “No, I fixed it up.”

  “I knew Mrs. B shouldn’t have let you read all those Little House books.”

  “What? It looks cheerful.”

  “Cheerful” wasn’t the word Horace would’ve used. In fact, cheerful wasn’t anywhere on the list of words he would have used. Dreadful, that’s the word Horace would have used. Everything was made of wood—floor, ceiling, walls, everything. And it was decorated with that material that irritated his sniffer—burlap.

  Jennie poked her head into the kitchen, then turned to look at them. “Did you buy a butter churn?”

  Eleanor glanced at her watch. “Oh, look, it’s time to check on the horses. Come on, Horace, I’ll introduce you.”

  No, thank you.

  Horace wasn’t interested in meeting the horses, or any of the animals for that matter, but before he could hide, Eleanor picked him up and carried him out of the house.

  The horses lived in the barn, which was directly across the gravel drive from the house. To its right, a chain-link fence surrounded pens for the alpacas and goats, and to its left was the chicken coop.
>
  Eleanor hummed a happy tune as she went.

  How could she be so cheerful?

  “Oops, gotta feed these girls while I’m thinking about it.” Eleanor set him down on what felt like a field of jagged rocks. When he tried to follow her into the coop, she blocked his way.

  “Sorry, baby boy, I know how you feel about birds, and I don’t want you trying to chase these away.”

  Horace detested birds. The unnatural way they moved, flapping their wings up and down. It was impossible to predict their flight patterns, which meant it was impossible to protect Eleanor from them.

  And then there were the feathers. He shuddered. Hideous.

  But there weren’t any birds in the coop. Horace saw a large nesting box in the back, an area to walk around, and a roof to keep out the sun and rain. But no chickens. According to the hand-painted sign on the door, there should be at least six.

  WELCOME TO

  CLUCKINGHAM PALACE!

  RESIDENTS:

  Chicka Dee

  Shell E. Winters

  Sonja Henney

  Eggness Gray

  Annie Yolkely

  and Gladys

  “Hey, girls!” Eleanor called out, tossing feed on the ground.

  A line of little yellow chicks marched out of the nest.

  “Just think, in about six months we’ll have all the fresh eggs we could ever want,” Eleanor said with a huge grin. “Huh, Gladys? Right, Chicka Dee?”

  She spoke to each of the chicks, calling them by name, but they didn’t pay her much attention. They were too focused on the feed. One chick followed a trail of it until she stood across the fence from Horace. When she lifted her head, her eyes grew round.

  “Wolf!” she shrieked.

  The other chicks immediately panicked. They scurried around, bumping into one another and screaming, “WOLF!”

  Horace sighed. Birds really were foolish creatures.

  “I’m a dog, not a wolf,” he explained.

  “Wolf!” they cried in unison.

  “No. I said I’m not a wolf. I’m a—”

  “Horace, stop barking at the chicks.” Eleanor walked out of the coop, frowning. “You’re scaring them.”

  The door slammed shut behind her, sending another wave of panic through the group.

  “THUNDER!” the chicks shrieked.

  Hmph. Scaring them indeed.

  Still shaking his head, Horace followed Eleanor into the barn, which was cool and dark and full of hay. The odors here were slightly less horrendous, and the soft dirt floor was a welcome relief for his paws. And there was music—a violin, if he wasn’t mistaken.

  “Did I leave the radio on?” Eleanor asked.

  The music cut off suddenly.

  How odd. Horace frowned.

  Eleanor led him around the tall bales of hay stacked in the center of the barn. There he found the two oldest horses in creation standing in side-by-side stalls with matching innocent expressions. But it wasn’t their expression or even their age that made Horace pause. It was their size. They were enormous. There would be trouble if they became aggressive. He stood in front of Eleanor, prepared to attack if one of them so much as neighed.

  Unfortunately, Eleanor didn’t seem worried. She walked past Horace and checked the radio. “Hmm. Weird. Anyway.” She turned to rub the muzzle of the black-spotted horse. “How are you today, Smith?”

  He neighed loudly, making Horace’s body tense. Was the horse going to attack? Horace raced forward but stopped short when Eleanor laughed.

  “That good, huh? And how about you, Jones?” She ran her other hand down the neck of the gray horse in the next stall.

  He flicked his ears back and forth and rubbed his muzzle on her arm.

  “Fellas, this handsome gentleman is Horace. He’s going to help me take care of you.” She waved him closer, but Horace was frozen in shock. Take care of them?

  Finally she walked over and picked him up. “Come on, I want them to get used to you so there aren’t any problems.”

  There wouldn’t be any problems if they knew what was good for them.

  “Hey! Moving guys are here!” Jennie’s voice rang through the barn.

  “Gotta go.” Eleanor lowered Horace to the ground. “Don’t leave the Homestead.”

  Without another word, she rushed off.

  Before he could follow her, Smith, the spotted horse, bent his head low. Horace took a step back, then squared his shoulders and faced the creatures. He would be brave—just like that great New Englander Ethan Allen, when he attacked Fort Ticonderoga in the Revolutionary War with fewer than a hundred men.

  “So you’re a florist, eh? Can’t see how. Got no thumbs.”

  A florist? Horace tilted his head. What on earth was the spotted horse talking about?

  The gray horse gave Horace an apologetic look. “You’ll have to forgive my brother. His hearing’s not what it used to be, and he gets a bit confused.” Then the horse turned and yelled. “His name is HORACE!”

  The first horse nodded, then buried his muzzle in the feed bag in front of him. Jones leaned closer. Horace backed up a few steps. Better to be safe.

  “Sure is nice to meet you, young fella.”

  What a polite animal. Maybe the horses didn’t pose a threat after all. True, the brother was strange, but he seemed harmless. In fact, they both did.

  “Yes, sir, nice to get some new animals in the neighborhood, what with someone rounding up critters.”

  Horace tilted his head. “Someone is taking animals?”

  The old gray horse nodded. “Terrible thing, sneaking in and snatching an animal from his home like that. Can’t imagine what they’re doing with ’em.”

  A pet thief? Good heavens, this place was even more dangerous than he’d realized. They needed to go back to the old apartment, where it was safe.

  “But who’s taking them?”

  “Ghosts,” Jones said.

  So the horses were harmless but deranged, Horace thought. Perhaps all the animals on the Homestead were foolish.

  “Yes, but you see, there’s no such thing as ghosts,” Horace informed the horse.

  Jones squeezed his lips together and gave him a serious look. “Sure are. I seen ’em. Tops of their heads, anyway. White as snow. Heard them too. They kept whispering. Couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I reckon it was spooky stuff.”

  “That can’t be . . .” Horace stopped. Why was he arguing? Better to end the conversation and get back to the house, where he could watch over Eleanor . . . and possibly clean his fur. “Yes, well, I’ll keep a lookout for them.”

  Jones leaned his head down again. “You be careful out there. Don’t walk in any shadows. That’s where they get you.”

  “Right. Thank you. It’s been very nice speaking with you. I bid you good day.” He turned and casually walked around the stack of hay. As soon as he was out of sight, he raced for the barn door.

  He didn’t stop moving until he was inside the house. Ghosts and wolves and disappearing animals? It was utter madness here. He curled up on the floor in the kitchen and started licking his legs.

  And that’s where he stayed. He kept licking while the moving men unloaded furniture, while Eleanor and Jennie unpacked boxes, and while the sun set. He probably would’ve stayed there the whole night if a knock on the door hadn’t interrupted his pity party.

  “Hey, Ellie, I brought pie,” a friendly voice called out.

  “Clary, you didn’t have to do that.” Eleanor grinned at the short, round woman standing in the doorway. Two little girls wearing matching floppy hats and overalls stood next to her. Their eyes lit up when they saw Horace.

  “You have a puppy?” one squealed.

  “He’s so cute!” the other shrieked.

  Horace froze, bracing for the pinching and the pulling that were sure to follow. But the girls were surprisingly gentle.

  They held him and petted him and scrunched up his face and kissed him. They even had a treat for him—che
ese. Eleanor said cheese was unhealthy for him, but he couldn’t refuse it. That would have been impolite. No, better to eat every bite and spare their feelings.

  “Can we get a puppy, Mama?”

  “Please. Please. Please.”

  Their mother ran a hand through her pale blond hair. “We’ll see.”

  Eleanor smiled. “You’re always welcome to come over and visit, girls. And if you come back in a week, you’ll get to meet Horace’s new sister.”

  A sister? He didn’t need a sister. Besides, Eleanor had more than enough animals without adding another dog. Maybe she was just saying that to cheer up the little girls. Yes, that was probably it. She certainly didn’t need another pet. She had him.

  2

  A New Family

  Eight zoomed around her pen, squealing with excitement.

  “Adoption Day! Adoption Day!”

  All her brothers and sisters had already gone home with their forever families, and today was her turn. Good thing too. Without the other piglets, Eight had been bored out of her gourd. There was no one to play Name That Stench, or I Dare You to Eat That, or Bite the Tail with. And it just wasn’t the same to bite your own tail.

  Plus she didn’t like being alone in the barn at night. There were spooky noises, and it got cold without someone to snuggle. Even if that someone was Eleven and he kicked you in the snout while he slept.

  That was another thing. How had Eleven gotten adopted before her? He was a total jerk and not nearly as cute. He didn’t have perfect black-and-white markings or blue eyes or a little pink heart right between his nose holes. It didn’t make any sense.

  Bub, the guy who took care of her, walked in as Eight circled her trough for the bajillionth time.

  “Looks like someone’s eager to meet her new family.”

  Bub opened the gate of her pen, and Eight took off running. She couldn’t wait another second. She raced around the barn, but they weren’t in there. They weren’t outside the barn either.

  “They aren’t here yet, little one. We need to make you presentable first.” Bub got the hose and added the nozzle to the end. “Time to get cleaned up.”

  Cleaned Up was Eight’s favorite game. It was super simple too. First you wait until the ground gets muddy. Then roll around in the mud. Finally you count how many times Bub tells you to knock it off.