Bunnicula Strikes Again!

by James Howe

“I ate string once in my life, Harold. Leave it to you to remember.”

  “How could I forget? There you were with this little piece of string dangling from your lips and Mr. Monroe went to pull it out and he kept pulling and pulling, and the next thing you know he was clear across the other side of the room holding one end of a twenty-foot piece of string with your mouth still holding the other end. You looked like a tape dispenser.”

  Howie cracked up. Chester did not.

  “But that’s beside the point,” I said. “The point is, why are you doing this?”

  Chester sighed heavily. “Harold,” he said, “you have a touching belief in the goodness of all creatures great and small. But how many times do I have to tell you? Bunnicula is not like other rabbits. He is evil.”

  “Now, Chester,” I said.

  “Tut, Harold, don’t interrupt. You asked me for the truth, and now you will hear the truth.”

  Howie lowered his rear end to the floor, an indication that he was settling in for a good story. I wondered if he understood the distinction between fiction and reality. Then again, I suspected that for Chester there was no distinction at all.

  “It began about a month ago,” Chester said. “It was a Saturday. I remember it particularly because Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had received phone calls that morning from both their mothers that they would be coming to visit on Mother’s Day. And although Mother’s Day was still two weeks away, the family spent the rest of the day in a frenzy of cleaning and fixing up and telling us we were underfoot and—”

  “Piling things in the car and taking things out. Yes, I remember,” I said.

  “And we ended up getting kicked out of the house,” Howie put in, “and they forgot about us and it started to rain and—”

  “Yes, it was a memorable day,” said Chester. “Well, Bunnicula slept through the day, of course, as he always does, but in the middle of the following night I was awakened by a clicking sound in the kitchen, followed by a light appearing under the door.”

  “Refrigerator,” I surmised.

  “Precisely. I might have made nothing of it had I not happened to glance in the direction of Bunnicula’s cage and seen that it was empty. Well, what was I to think, Harold? He was at it again! He was in there, I had no doubt of it, attacking artichokes, sucking squash, biting broccoli, sinking his fangs into fennel—”

  “Stop!” Howie cried. “It’s too horrible!”

  Chester pressed on relentlessly. “I tried to catch him in the act, but, oh, he’s a tricky devil, that one, and he outmaneuvered me. By the time I entered the kitchen, he was gone. He had left his victims behind, though, carelessly scattered about the floor like so much litter on a public beach.”

  “Uncle Harold,” Howie said, “when you write a book about this, will you find a way to remind your readers that they should never litter?”

  “I definitely will,” I promised. “Now go on, Chester.”

  “What was I to do? Should I leave those poor victimized victuals on the floor for the Monroes to discover in the morning? Remembering how dense they had been the first time this happened and, seeing no reason to think they’d grown any additional brain cells since then, I decided on a different course of action. I buried the pallid produce under some other garbage in the pail and made a vow to myself once and for all to take matters into my own hands.”

  “Paws,” Howie said.

  “Why?” asked Chester. “Do you need to go get a drink of water?”

  “Take matters into your own paws. You don’t have hands.”

  Chester pulled his lips back into a strained smile. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bright little whippersnapper?” he asked.

  “Gee, no,” Howie said, beaming.

  “Well, there’s a reason for that,” Chester said, and then he went on. “Every night for the next two weeks it was the same thing. Out of his cage, into the kitchen, drain the veggies, and back before dawn. But I detected a puzzling difference from times past when Bunnicula had sucked the juice out of vegetables. This time he didn’t always finish the job. It must be, I thought, that he isn’t all that hungry. After all, he was still drinking the juice the Monroes gave him every day. What then was his motive? It almost appeared that he was playing a game, that attacking vegetables was a form of sport for him. I thought about it, and it occurred to me that Bunnicula was unusually frisky and playful at that time.”

  Although I wondered why neither Howie nor I had come upon any evidence of these nighttime escapades, I knew the last part of what Chester had said was true. I remembered how on several occasions when Toby and Pete had taken Bunnicula out of his cage, he’d frolicked about with enormous energy and had appeared especially contented when he’d cuddled into the crook of Toby’s neck. As best one can judge the emotional state of a rabbit, I would have said he was the happiest I’d ever known him.

  “But he’s not like that anymore,” I pointed out. “When did it change? And why?”

  “This is where the story becomes truly curious,” Chester replied. “A couple of weeks ago, I was all set to prevent his midnight runs on the refrigerator when—”

  Howie interrupted. “How were you going to do that, Pop?”

  “Garlic,” Chester said matter-of-factly. “It immobilizes vampires and, as Harold can tell you, it’s worked on Bunnicula in the past. In any event, I never got to use it because all of a sudden he stopped.”

  “No more sinking his fangs into fennel?” Howie asked.

  “No more attacking artichokes,” said Chester.

  “So why didn’t you just leave him alone?” I inquired.

  “At first, I thought I might. Then it occurred to me that he was probably well aware of my watching him. What if he was trying to lull me into a false sense of security? Perhaps he had something really big planned. Ha! I thought. I’ll show him a thing or two! And with that, I began sneaking into his cage every day and drinking that disgusting potion the Monroes concoct for him. And as you can see, he’s gotten weaker and weaker.”

  And you, Chester, I thought, have gotten weirder and weirder.

  “Do you intend to continue to deprive him of his food until he starves?” I asked.

  Chester just gazed at me slyly.

  “Let me just repeat: The matter is now under control,” he said.

  So at the very least Chester planned to keep Bunnicula at bay by weakening him. Yet I couldn’t help thinking that there was another reason Bunnicula had stopped his attacks, a reason beyond lack of food, that he had suddenly become less frisky, a reason that had nothing to do with Chester. However, my dog’s brain, which is to a cat’s brain what a corridor is to a labyrinth, could not begin to sort it all out. No, it would take Chester to do that—and although the conclusion he would draw would be based more on a hunch than hard, cold fact, it would prove to be correct. Just as the consequences would prove to be nearly catastrophic.

  [ FOUR ]

  A Rabbit’s Tears

  IDID not sleep well that night. Toby tossed and turned, and I, tethered to the end of his bed by inertia, allowed myself to be rolled this way and that until shortly before dawn when he sat up and whispered in the dark, “Harold, are you awake?” Not waiting for an answer, he climbed out from under his covers and wrapped himself around me in a full body hug.

  “I had bad dreams, boy,” he said in a hushed tone. “Did I tell you what movie we saw last night when we went to the last show at the theater? Dracula. Not the new one we saw the time we found Bunnicula, but the old one with Bela Lugosi. It wasn’t even in color and the special effects were totally lame. I didn’t think it was scary at all when I was watching it, but, boy, Harold, it sure was scary in my dreams.”

  I looked him in the eye and panted to let him know I understood.

  “Aw, you understand, don’t you, boy?” he said. Works every time.

  “I’ll tell you one thing, Harold,” he said, yawning. “You’d better stay out of Mom and Dad’s way today. They’re pretty bummed out about this theater
thing, losing the battle and all. You know what’s going to happen on Tuesday? Boom! They’re coming in with a wrecking ball and down it goes!”

  He yawned again. “Well, I’m going to try to get some more sleep. What are you going to do?”

  He ruffled the hair on the top of my head, then crawled back under the covers, and before I’d had time to find out if his question was multiple choice or essay, he was sound asleep.

  Looking out the window, I could see that the sky was beginning to grow light. Bunnicula, whose sleeping and waking hours were at odds with everyone else’s in the house, would be going to sleep soon for the day, and that meant it was time for his old buddy Harold to sing him a lullaby.

  As quietly as I could, I removed myself from Toby’s bed, stretched out my aching muscles, and lumbered down the stairs.

  On first encountering the familiar scene in the living room, I felt immensely reassured. Bunnicula was in his cage, Chester was curled up in his armchair, Howie lay sprawled under the coffee table. Each was in his proper place. Serenity was spread over the room like cream cheese on a bagel.

  Now for those of you who haven’t read my first book, Bunnicula, the idea of my singing a lullaby to my little furry friend in the language of his native land (a remote area of the Carpathian Mountains region) may strike you as peculiar. For those of you who have read the book, the idea probably strikes you as just as peculiar, but at least you’ve been warned. You see, soon after Bunnicula’s arrival in our home, I discovered that this particular lullaby soothes him, and so I have sung it to him regularly ever since. Roughly translated, it goes something like this:

  The sheep are in the meadow,

  The goats are on the roof,

  In the parlor are the peasants,

  In the pudding is the proof.

  Dance on the straw

  And laugh at the moon

  Night is heavy on your eyes

  And morning will come soon.

  So sleep, little baby,

  There’s nothing you should fear,

  With garlic at the window

  And your mama always near.

  Admittedly, it sounds better in the original. I only regret that I cannot record the melody here, for there is a wistful melancholia about it that would touch you, I’m certain, as it touches me when I croon it in my throaty baritone. And I know it touches Bunnicula as it carries him off to dream-land. On this occasion, however, I noted a new response on Bunnicula’s part—one that struck me as curious and, under the circumstances, somewhat alarming.

  “Do rabbits cry?” I asked Chester after Bunnicula had fallen asleep.

  Chester had roused himself from his night’s slumber and was in the middle of doing that stretch cats do where they extend their front paws out on the floor in front of them as if they’re praying and raise their rear ends up high like they’re waiting for the whole world to notice and say, “Hey, that’s some nice tush you got there.”

  I explained that as I was singing the lullaby to Bunnicula—the same one, I pointed out, that I’d sung him many times before—tears were rolling down his fuzzy little cheeks.

  “Rabbits don’t have a sentimental bone in their bodies,” Chester said, dismissing the whole thing categorically. “Especially vampire rabbits.”

  And with that he marched into the kitchen for breakfast. End of discussion.

  I glanced out the window. The sky was gray, and a misty rain was beginning to fall. The perfect sort of day for serious napping, I thought, and that was exactly how I intended to spend it.

  And that was exactly how I was spending it until some time later when I heard Chester’s voice buzzing in my ear like a gnat.

  “Harold, Harold,” he buzzed. “I know you’re in there, Harold!”

  What next? I thought. We’ve got you surrounded?

  “Okay, fine,” he went on, “it takes you time to open your eyes, I know that. I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, have a heart attack or something, from the effort of pushing up your eyelids too quickly, so just listen.”

  Do I bite him now or later?

  “I’ve got it all figured out, Harold.”

  “He does, Uncle Harold, he really does.”

  Oh, joy. The junior detective is also on the scene.

  “Howie, let me handle this, will you?” Chester said.

  “Sure, Pop.”

  I began to snore.

  “Stop trying to pretend you’re asleep, Harold,” Chester pressed on relentlessly. “Okay, here’s my theory. First, when was it that Bunnicula started acting frisky and playful and when, not so coincidentally, did he start his most recent assault on vegetables? Right after Mr. and Mrs. Monroe received calls from their mothers, that’s when. Now, when did everything change? Two weeks later, on Mother’s Day, Harold! When he heard the other mothers were coming, he must have gotten it into his little hare brain that his long-lost mother might be coming on Mother’s Day, too, and when she didn’t .. . it was down-in-the-dumps for our little furry friend.”

  “I’ll bet he thinks she doesn’t love him anymore,” Howie chimed in. “And you know what they say—you’re no bunny till some bunny loves you.”

  Fascinating. I could actually hear Chester gritting his teeth. “What more evidence do you need, Harold? Think about it. He cried when you sang him that silly lullaby. He cried, Harold. He misses his mother! But that’s not the half of it. He has plans, Harold, I’m sure of it. Some of those tears were because his plans were not fulfilled. Come on, let’s go. I know that you know that I know what must be done!”

  Slowly, I raised my eyelids. “Do you talk that way just to drive me crazy?” I asked. “Or do you actually think in sentences like that?”

  “If there’s any chance Bunnicula’s mother has returned, we’ve got to find her before he does,” Chester said.

  “Before he does,” Howie echoed.

  “It can’t all be coincidence, Harold. Just think about it. Mother’s Day . . . and what movie was playing at the theater? Dracula, Harold, Dracula!”

  I looked at the two of them. I looked out the window. I thought back to Chester’s description of Bunnicula’s half-finished attacks on the vegetables, as if it were a sport. Maybe he was celebrating in his own way the possibility of being reunited with his mother. There was some logic to that.

  “But it’s raining,” I pointed out.

  “So?” said Chester. “You’re waterproof. If Bunnicula’s mother is out there, who knows how many more vampire rabbits are on the loose?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll go with you,” I said. “Just give me a minute to look for my mind, will you? I seem to have lost it.”

  Luckily—at least, luckily for Chester and Howie—the Monroes were all in other parts of the house, so they didn’t see us sneaking out the pet door into the rain.

  “This is so cool,” Howie yipped excitedly as we rounded the corner at the end of the block. “It’s just like FleshCrawlers number twenty-four, My Parents Are Aliens from the Planet Zorg. See, there’s this girl named Tiffani-Sue Tribellini, and she’s trying to find her mother because the person she thinks is her mother is really an alien. How the girl knows is that every time her mother goes near the microwave she glows. Which is not your normal mother thing to do. So one day—”

  “Will you two get a move on?” Chester scolded.

  “Chester!” I shouted back. “Do you have a clue where you’re leading us?”

  “More than a clue! We’re going to the last place Bunnicula saw his mother and where I believe we will now find her, waiting for her sonny boy! The movie theater!”

  “Oh, goody!” Howie cried out. “Can we get popcorn? Can I sit on the aisle? Will there be coming attractions?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Howie we weren’t actually going to see a movie. As it turned out, we never even got to the theater. With the disaster that would soon befall us, I couldn’t help thinking I’d been right in the first place. It was a perfect day for napping.

  [ FIVE ]

/>   Surprise Encounters

  ABIT of an explanation may be useful here. Those of you whose memory, like mine, is as full of holes as a garden hose after Howie’s played Let’s-Pretend-This-Long-Green-Thing’s-a-Snake with it may not recall the exact circumstances of Bunnicula’s coming to live with us. One night a couple of years ago, the Monroes went to the movies and on one of the seats discovered a dirt-filled shoebox holding a tiny white-and-black bunny. A note in a foreign language read TAKE GOOD CARE OF MY BABY. Because the movie Dracula was playing there that night, Mrs. Monroe had the bright idea of combining “bunny” and “Dracula” to come up with the rabbit’s name: Bunnicula. This was after she’d had the anything-but-bright ideas of naming him Fluffy or Bun-Bun. She means well, Mrs. Monroe, but sometimes her taste is decidedly Brady Bunch.

  Now I was not convinced, as Chester clearly was, that Bunnicula’s mother—if she in fact had been the one to leave him at the movie theater in the first place—would still be hanging around there. After all, how long could anybody take a diet of stale popcorn and gummy bears? And if she had not stayed there, what would make her want to return? Remorse? But I did find his argument compelling that Bunnicula, for whatever reason, seemed to miss his mother and had gone on his recent rampage out of excitement over Mother’s Day. So perhaps it was worth trying to find her. I didn’t let on that my motives were different from his. He may have been out to undo some vague grand plan he imagined was under way. He may have been determined to destroy vampire rabbits. J was intent on reuniting them.

  Luckily, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and soon the sweet smell of spring blossoms and fresh earth permeated the air. Not to mention certain other aromas of infinitely greater interest to dogs.

  “Do you two have to stop at every hydrant?” Chester snapped at one point.

  “We’re investigating,” I explained.

  “Yeah,” said Howie, “maybe we’ll pick up Bunnicula’s mother’s scent.”

  “Unless she’s a volunteer firerabbit, I don’t think that’s too likely,” Chester retorted. “Now, come on!”