Return to Howliday Inn

by James Howe

  A week? Why did this sound familiar? I looked up at the spot where Bunnicula’s cage had been and began to whimper.

  “Bunnicula’s okay, pal,” said Toby. “He’s staying with Pete’s friend Kyle while we go on vacation. Kyle’s dad picked him up real early this morning. I said he should go with you and Chester and Howie, but Kyle really, really wanted him to stay with him, so—”

  I was out of there and into the kitchen before Toby could finish his sentence.

  “Chester!” I cried. “Bunnicula is gone!” Chester barely looked up from his food dish.

  “I told you we were doomed,” he said in the tone of voice he uses whenever he tells me we’re doomed, which is on the average of twice a week.

  Howie shook his head. “I can’t get any more out of him, Uncle Harold,” he said. “He just keeps saying, ‘We’re doomed, we’re doomed.’ Oh, and something about ‘that place on the hill.’”

  “That’s it!” I said. “The Monroes are going on vacation and we’re going back . . . back to Chateau Bow-Wow.”

  Howie’s eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. “The place of my birth,” he sniffed, “my heritage, my roots. Gosh. Uncle Harold, can we take a camera?”

  “That would be nice. What do you think, Chester?”

  Chester apparently wasn’t in the mood to discuss photographic equipment. “I think,” he said, “that you both underestimate the seriousness of our predicament. We escaped that dreadful place once, Harold. Will we be so fortunate again?”

  I was about to reply when out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Monroe coming toward me, my collar in his outstretched hands. “Here you go, Harold, ol’ buddy,” he said, with a throaty chuckle.

  Just as I felt the leather strap tighten around my neck, I heard Chester mutter, “Who knows what new evil awaits us when we return to . . . Howliday Inn?”

  [ TWO ]

  Gruel and Unusual Punishment

  “HOWLIDAY Inn” was what Chester called Chateau Bow-Wow, the boarding kennel where we’d once spent an eventful week—the very week, in fact, of Howie’s birth.

  “Aside from your being born there,” Chester told Howie as the three of us lurched about in the back of the Monroe’s station wagon on the way to our—what had Chester called it again? Oh, yes, our doom—“the place is nothing but bad vibes. In the space of one week, Howie, one week, there was poisoning, kidnapping, attempted murder, howling in the night—”

  “That’s not so bad, Pop,” Howie said. “Most movies have all that stuff in less than two hours. And you have to pay for it!”

  “That may be,” Chester said, slipping from sight as he lowered himself to the bottom of his carrier, “but this is not a movie, Howie. It’s reality.”

  I wanted to remind Howie that Chester’s definition of reality was not necessarily a match for Webster’s, but I was feeling a little too carsick at the moment to do anything more than groan.

  I groaned the rest of the way to Chateau Bow-Wow.

  At first glance, the place looked as I remembered it: a large, creepy house high on a hill with a compound of cages behind it. The compound was surrounded by a tall wooden fence. There was a gate in the fence and a sign on the gate welcoming us. I noticed the sign had been changed. It used to read A SPECIAL BOARDING HOUSE FOR SPECIAL CATS AND DOGS. Now CATS AND DOGS had been replaced by PETS. I wondered at the change. Noticing that change brought other changes to my attention. The house and the cages had been repainted. There were some new shrubs here and there in the compound and the rickety wooden fence had been reinforced by a metal one.

  Something more than paint and shrubs was different though. I couldn’t put my paw on it, but there was something missing.

  Shortly after the Monroes left, Chester, Howie, and I found ourselves standing in the center of the compound in the midday sun. The air was as still as a puppy who’s just chewed a hole in the carpet and hears her master’s key in the door.

  Howie looked around in awe. “So this is where I was born,” he said. I followed his gaze as he turned to take it all in. The grassy compound was surrounded on three sides by seemingly empty cages—I made a mental note to tell Howie that at Chateau Bow-Wow “cages” are called “bungalows”—behind which stood the wood-and-metal fence. The fourth wall of the compound was actually the back wall of the house with an extension of fence going out from one corner. There was a door in the wall leading into Dr. Greenbriar’s office and a gate in the fence leading outside.

  It was incredibly quiet.

  “Must be siesta time,” Chester quipped.

  I nodded in agreement.

  Howie sniffed the air. “Maybe we’re the only ones here.”

  That’s when it hit me. The big difference in Chateau Bow-Wow was that our friends weren’t there. Max, Louise, Georgette, Taxi, Howard and Heather, even crazy Lyle—they had been what had made Chateau Bow-Wow so, shall we say, unique. I couldn’t imagine the place without them.

  A lump was forming in my throat when all at once I heard a familiar voice call out, “Harold! Chester! And oh, my gosh, is that little Howie?”

  I turned. There at the door to the office stood Jill, an old friend. She flung her arms open wide and ran toward us, tripping on a tree root. Another girl followed on the first girl’s heels.

  Jill gave me a big hug around the neck as I licked her face.

  “Do you two know each other?” Howie asked, and he added, “Just a hunch.”

  “This is Jill,” I told him. “She works here. Last time, there was another helper, a real clown named Harrison, but I don’t think—”

  “Oh, it’s so good to see you guys,” Jill squealed. “I just got to work and Dr. Green-briar said you were here. I’m his assistant now, isn’t that neat? Of course, Harrison . . . you remember Harrison.”

  Chester rolled his eyes.

  “Well, Harrison has started his own comic book company, so I’ve taken his job for the summer. And Daisy helps me.” She nodded at the other girl.

  Daisy looked like a daisy. She had this big, open face and wild, yellow hair. She was also what we pets call a “gusher”

  “Ooooo,” she crooned, grabbing Howie and squeezing him so tight his eyes bulged, “you are sooo cute. I could just eat you up, little puppy.”

  Howie licked Daisy, which only made her giggle and gush some more. “You’re just as cute as the dickens,” she said. “How about if I call you Dickens?”

  “How about if she calls me a cab?” Chester muttered. “I want outta here.”

  Glancing at the fence, I thought, Not much chance of anybody getting out of this place.

  “Daisy,” I heard Jill say then, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to put Howie down for now.”

  “Aw, do I have to?”

  “’Fraid so. We really need to finish getting the bungalows ready for these guys.”

  Daisy nuzzled Howie’s nose. “Goodbye, Dickens,” she said. “Hug ya later, okay?”

  She put Howie gently back on the ground and the two girls walked away. Howie couldn’t take his eyes off Daisy. “She’s cute,” he said with a sigh. “Gee, Uncle Harold, is this what they call puppy love?”

  Before I could answer, Chester shook his head and started to walk away. “Dogs,” he muttered.

  As if on cue, two dogs poked their heads out from behind one of the far bungalows. “Hallo!” shouted the smaller one. “I’m Linda!”

  “And I’m Bob!” shouted the other. “Care to join us for a little barbecue?”

  BARBECUE-FLAVORED dog biscuits sat propped against the back of what we came to realize was Bob’s bungalow. Bob was a cocker spaniel in a Mets cap; his friend Linda was a West Highland white terrier bedecked in a knotted yellow bandanna.

  “Don’t you just love barbecue?” Linda asked. “Bob and I say we don’t know how we get through each winter without it.”

  “Well, but then there’s sushi,” said Bob.

  I nodded politely. I wasn’t aware of any raw fish-flavored dog biscuits on the market,
but I kept my ignorance to myself.

  “The kids insisted that we be allowed to keep our barbecue biscuits,” Linda went on. “That nasty Dr. Greenbriar didn’t want to let us. He said something silly about a balanced diet, but the kids told him that they were paying the bill and they would decide what a balanced diet was.”

  “Where’re you folks from?” Bob asked.

  “Centerville,” I told him.

  “Oh, it’s so sweet there,” Linda said. “Quaint. Charming. We’re from Upper Centerville.” I could have guessed. “We have a pool. Of course, we have to be careful not to fall in, don’t we, Bob?” Bob nodded. “Do you have a pool?”

  “We did,” Howie said, “until I bit it and the air came out.”

  Bob and Linda smiled politely as if Howie were just too quaint for words.

  “So,” Chester said. It was his first word since we’d joined the two dogs. Well, not his first word exactly. He had said, “Not if my life depended on it,” when they’d asked him if he’d care for a barbecue-flavored dog biscuit. “So,” he repeated, “are we it? Is anybody else staying here?”

  Bob and Linda looked at each other, their brows furrowed.

  “Let me put it this way,” Bob said at last, “we’re the only normal ones.”

  “Really,” said Linda. “You won’t believe the riffraff. There are these two cats.” She looked at Chester and scrunched up her face as if her dog biscuit had stayed on the barbecue too long. “Trust me,” she said. “You don’t want to know them. And then there’s this character they call ‘The Weasel.’”

  “Why’s that?” Chester asked.

  “I expect it’s because he’s a weasel,” said Bob. Turning to Linda, he said, “Don’t forget the parrot, hon.”

  “Oh, that bird!” Linda said, fluttering her eyelashes. “Squawk, squawk, squawk, all day long. Thank heavens they cover it up at night. And then there’s this strange dog.”

  “Size of a horse,” said Bob. “And talk about moody. Sheesh. I told him he should lighten up, try deep breathing, get a hobby.”

  Linda nodded. “Most depressed dog I ever saw,” she said. “Oh, if the kids only knew the kind of place they were leaving us.”

  “This is the longest the kids have been away from us” Bob explained. “They send us post-cards, but we can’t help but worry.”

  “Here, let me show you,” Linda said. She pulled a card out from behind the biscuit bag. On the front was a picture of a long stretch of sandy beach. On the back were these words:

  Dear Bob and Linda, Never saw water so blue! Hope you’re having fun at Chateau Bow-Wow. We miss you like crazy but need the space. Love, T&T.

  “Tom and Tracy,” Linda explained. “The kids.”

  Chester leaned over and whispered in my ear, “If these two are the normal ones, I can’t wait to meet the others.”

  Linda gasped. “Don’t look now,” she said, staring at something behind us. Naturally, we all turned to look. Two—what you might call if you were in a forgiving mood—cats were heading in our direction. One, a skinny, striped gray with matted fur, strutted so smoothly her shoulders must have been on ball bearings. Her piercing eyes were stuck on us like hungry fleas. Her blank-faced companion was fat, long-haired, and tabby. As she waddled toward us, I noticed she was chewing something, and I couldn’t help wondering how she kept from getting whatever it was stuck in all the long hairs around her mouth.

  “Well, well,” the gray one snarled as she approached, “and whom have we here, hmm?”

  The tabby circled Chester, giving him the once-over. “Nice whiskers,” she said in a husky voice when she came full circle. For the first time since I’d known him, Chester appeared to be at a loss for words. The tabby stared him in the eyes and asked, “Did you bring any rations?”

  Chester took his time before answering. “Are you talking to me?”

  The scrawny gray cat snorted. “Well, she ain’t talkin’ to yer mother,” she cracked, breaking into a snorty sort of laugh. The fat one chortled huskily.

  Chester, Howie, and I exchanged nervous glances. Bob and Linda just shook their heads sadly, no doubt wondering what “the kids” would think if only they knew.

  The gray cat stopped laughing abruptly. “I’m Felony,” she said, spitting out the words. It was less an introduction than a threat. “And this here’s my sister, Miss Demeanor.”

  “You’re sisters?” Howie said.

  “Sisters in crime,” Felony snapped. “Cat burglars. Wanta make somethin’ of it?”

  There was a long silence during which no one chose to make somethin’ of it.

  “What were you saying about rations?” Chester asked at last.

  Felony sneered. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” she said, glancing around. “The glop they serve here is enough to send yer taste buds out on strike.”

  “They say it’s good fer ya,” Miss Demeanor chimed in, “but I say so’s a flea collar, doesn’t mean I want to eat it.”

  “So we was just wondering if you brought anything widja,” Felony went on. “Somethin’ besides mosquito-flavored crackers.” She snapped a look at Bob and Linda.

  “That’s ‘mesquite,’” Bob said softly.

  “Whatever,” said Felony, turning back to Chester.

  “I’m afraid not,” Chester said.

  “Pity,” said Felony. “You’re gonna wish you had.”

  “The food’s that bad?” I asked.

  “Like nothin’ you ever ate,” Felony replied.

  “Like nothin’ you deserve,” said Miss Demeanor.

  “Gee,” said Howie, “it sounds like gruel and unusual punishment.”

  Miss Demeanor nodded her head. “However, once Felony and I have found the—,” she started to say, but the other cat gave her a sharp look that stopped her cold. Her mouth snapped shut and she resumed chewing.

  Chester eyed the two cats suspiciously.

  Suddenly, the air was filled with a distant high-pitched voice singing what sounded for all the world like a hymn. The only words I could make out were, “While on the path of righteousness I slither.” Felony shook her head in disgust.

  “That’s The Weasel,” she snarled. “A disgrace to his race.”

  “A shame to his name,” said Miss Demeanor.

  Howie, who hates being left out, said, “A wart to this sort.” We all turned slowly. He smiled up at us and said weakly, “A blot to his lot? A blister to his sister? A bother to his father?”

  “Oh, dear,” I heard Linda whisper to Bob, “perhaps you and I are the only normal ones here, after all.”

  I wasn’t the only one who heard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Felony said, turning her eyes into tiny slits.

  Linda laughed nervously. “Oh, nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, it better mean nothing. Else, watch out fer yer doggie biscuits.”

  “Surely,” said Bob, arching a superior eyebrow, “stealing dog biscuits is beneath you.”

  Miss Demeanor arched a superior eyebrow of her own. “Nothing is beneath us,” she said with pride.

  I caught the little smile behind her eyes and began to wonder if Chester might have been right. Perhaps something terrible was going to happen.

  [ THREE ]

  Things That Go Bark in the Night

  CHESTER was thinking the same way I was.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” he muttered, as Jill and Daisy escorted us to our bungalows. The two of us trailed behind Jill, while Howie rode first class in Daisy’s arms. “Those two spell trouble.”

  “I don’t know if they’re that bright,” I said. Personally, I wasn’t sure they were the biggest of our worries. After all, we hadn’t met the hymn-singing weasel yet.

  As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait. He was staying in the bungalow next to mine.

  “Harold,” Jill said, “this is The Weasel. Don’t let his name fool you. He’s a sweetie, isn’t he, Daisy?”

  Daisy looked up from where she had her head buried in Howie’s tummy.
“I call him Little Darlin’,” she said, as if that proved something other than her own inability to call animals by their rightful name.

  After she and Jill returned to the office, The Weasel weaseled out of his bungalow and into mine. I retreated to a corner, not sure how eager I was for the company of this slinky, not exactly aromatic creature with the beady eyes and pointy nose.

  “Hello, friend,” he said in a velvety, soothing tone. I suspect he sensed my discomfort. The fact that the floor was covered with the hair I’d shed immediately on his arrival might have been a tip-off.

  “I’ve just come to spread a little sunshine,” he went on.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “I just want you to know, since we’re going to be neighbors and all, that you can call on me anytime. If you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be here as quick as a mink.”

  “That’s very—”

  “Weasels get a bum rap, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, well—”

  “Look at me, do I seem mean, sneaky, homicidal?”

  “Gee, I—”

  “Of course I don’t. Judge not, lest ye be judged, that’s what I always say. Take yourself, for instance.” I wanted to take myself right out of there, but The Weasel was blocking the way. “You’re not dumb and lazy and covered with fleas.”

  “Well, he got one out of three right,” I heard Chester crack from the bungalow to my left. I glowered in his direction.

  “Would you like to take a stroll with me?” The Weasel asked. “Get acquainted?”

  I noticed that he never stopped smiling. I began thinking what a great game-show host he would make.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Oh, sorry.” I wanted to say no, but fearing that he’d think me lazy if I did, I said, without much conviction, “Sure.”

  There’s one thing I should tell you about Chateau Bow-Wow. For all the fancy security, the bungalows are a snap to open from the inside. We were out in the compound in a flash.

  Chester hissed at me as we passed, “Watch your wallet.”