Bunnicula

by Deborah Howe

  Early the next morning, we all piled into the car, some of us with greater reluctance than others, and trundled off to the vet. And by afternoon, we were on our way to solving our problems.

  The vet worked everything out very nicely. He discovered that Bunnicula was suffering from extreme hunger. (I could have told him that.) Rather than jar his fragile stomach with solid foods, the doctor decided he should be put on a liquid diet until he got better. So Bunnicula was immediately given some carrot juice, which he drank eagerly. After he finished, he looked over at me with a great grin on his face and winked.

  Chester was diagnosed as being emotionally overwrought. It was suggested that he start sessions with a cat psychiatrist to work out what the doctor called a case of sibling rivalry with Bunnicula. I asked Chester later what a sibling was, but he wasn’t speaking to me. So I looked it up. It’s like a brother or sister. And sibling rivalry means you are competing with your brother or sister for attention. I wasn’t sure this was Chester’s problem, but it sure explained a lot about Toby and Pete.

  As for me . . . well, I came out the best. Dr. Wasserman was all set to give me my shots when the nurse came in with my card.

  “Wait, doctor, this dog doesn’t need his shots yet. It’s too soon.”

  So I got a pat on the head and a doggie-pop instead.

  These days, everything is back to normal in the Monroe household—almost. Bunnicula liked his liquid diet so much that the Monroes have kept him on it. And oddly enough, there have been no problems with vegetables mysteriously turning white since. Chester, of course, insists that this proves his theory.

  “Obviously, Harold, the liquified vegetables take the place of the vegetable juices, so Bunnicula has no need to go roaming anymore.”

  “Then he’s not a vampire,” I said.

  “Nonsense. He’s a vampire all right. But he’s a modern vampire. He gets his juices from a blender.”

  “Case closed, Sherlock?” I queried.

  “Case closed.”

  “Oh, Chester . . .”

  “Yes, Harold?”

  “What are those two funny marks on your neck?”

  Chester jumped and I laughed. “Very funny,” he said as he began to bathe his tail, “very funny.”

  The Monroes never knew anything of Chester’s theory. They changed markets and to this day believe they were the victims of a curious vegetable blight.

  Bunnicula and I have become good friends. He still doesn’t say anything, but he snuggles up next to me by the fireplace and we take long cozy snoozes together. One night, I sang him a lullaby in the obscure dialect of his homeland, and he slept very peacefully. It was that night that cemented our friendship.

  Now—about Chester. I said that everything was back to normal—almost. Naturally, Chester is the “almost.” He has been seeing his psychiatrist, Dr. Verrückt Katz, twice a week for some time now. He takes his therapy very seriously.

  The other morning, I was trying to get a little sleep, when Chester came over and nudged me in the ribs.

  “Harold, do you realize we’ve never really communicated? I mean really communicated?”

  I opened one eye cautiously.

  “And in order to communicate, Harold, you have to really be in touch with yourself. Are you in touch with yourself, Harold? Can you look yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I know who I am. I am in touch with the me-ness that is me, and I can reach out to the you-ness that is you’?”

  I closed my eye. I’m used to it by now. He talks like that all the time. He no longer reads Edgar Allan Poe at night. And once he concluded that he had been right about Bunnicula, there has been no more talk about vampires. The Mark of the Vampire sits, its usefulness obsolete, on its shelf. Right now, he’s reading Finding Yourself by Screaming a Lot, and the other night, when I heard the most awful noise coming from the basement, I didn’t even bat an eyelid. I knew it was just Chester “finding himself,” as he calls it. He explains to me that he’s getting in touch with his kittenhood. And I’ve told him that’s fine—just to let me know when he’s going to do it, so I can be elsewhere. I’ve had enough trouble from Chester’s adventures.

  So that’s my story. And the story of a mysterious stranger who no longer seems quite so mysterious and who is definitely no longer a stranger. I’ve presented the facts as clearly as I could, and I leave it to you, dear reader, to draw your own conclusions.

  I must now bring this narrative to a close, since it is Friday night—Toby’s night to stay up late and read—and I can hear the crinkling of cellophane. I can only hope it covers two chocolate cupcakes with cream filling.