Bunnicula Strikes Again!

by James Howe

  “Can I go with you, Dad?” Toby asked.

  Mr. Monroe shook his head. “You have school today, young man.”

  “But I could miss it, couldn’t I? What’s one day of school?”

  “You have tomorrow off because of teacher conferences. That’s enough days off for this week. Besides, it’s Bunnicula who’s sick, not you.”

  “But what if Bunnicula d—” Toby stopped himself from completing his sentence. I bumped up against his leg to remind him that his pal Harold was there for him. I felt his hand come to rest lightly on the top of my head.

  “Now, son,” Mr. Monroe said in a soft, soothing voice, “I’m sure Bunnicula will be fine. Maybe there’s a problem with the food we’ve been giving him. Or maybe it’s some kind of virus. Whatever it is, Dr. Greenbriar will figure it out and have him all fixed up in no time flat.”

  “Promise?” Toby said.

  I looked up at Mr. Monroe’s face. There was something in it that told me he wasn’t entirely comfortable with his answer.

  “Promise,” he told Toby.

  Later that morning, after Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had gone to work and Toby and Pete to school, the phone rang.

  Howie jumped up from where he was napping and began running in circles. “I’ll get it! I’ll get it!” he yipped.

  The answering machine picked up.

  “Boys,” Mr. Monroe’s voice said. Howie stopped yipping at once. “I just wanted to leave you this message since you’ll get home before I do today. Dr. Greenbriar is keeping Bunnicula overnight. He needs to run some tests. The important thing is not to worry. Bunnicula will be fine, guys. Okay? Bunnicula will be . . . fine.”

  The machine clicked off.

  “Mr. Monroe didn’t sound like Bunnicula would be fine,” Howie said.

  “No, he didn’t,” I agreed.

  Chester said nothing, and the three of us fell into an uneasy silence. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The space by the window where Bunnicula’s cage had been sitting only that morning was empty, save for the fine layer of dust that held a few white and black hairs. I sniffed at them, sneezed from the dust, then felt my eyes grow wet with the thought that these few hairs were all that remained of Bunnicula. I’d never even said good-bye.

  I turned. Chester was staring intently at the empty space.

  “Plan C,” he said, and then fell silent again.

  [ SEVEN ]

  Plant, See?

  I DIDN’T see Chester for most of the rest of the day. I assumed he was keeping himself busy with Plan C, whatever that was, but since Bunnicula was now safely out of the house, I didn’t worry about it much. Surely Dr. Greenbriar would find out what was wrong with him. And there would be no crazed cat around to suck down his vegetable juices while he slept, so at the very least Bunnicula would be able to eat properly again.

  By the time the boys came home, I had begun to wonder where Chester was, however. On Mondays, Toby and Pete get home about a half hour before their father arrives from the university where he teaches. Howie and I always rush to the door to greet them and Toby always says, “Hi, guys, I’ll bet you’re hungry!”

  Does he know dogs or what?

  Now Chester may harp at me and Howie about our thinking with our stomachs, but it’s a known fact that cats are every bit as meal-minded as dogs. It’s just that dogs are more obvious about it. You take one look in our eyes and you know what we’re thinking.

  Feed me.

  Pet me.

  Love me.

  Even if I did turn your new catcher’s mitt into an unrecognizable glob of leather and dog slobber, I’m still your best buddy, right?

  Cats, on the other hand, like to keep you guessing. They’ll rub back and forth against your legs (I’ve observed that Chester likes to do this most when the Monroes are wearing black pants), meowing like crazy until you finally get the message, and then they start doing this little dance that you think is saying, “Yes, yes, that’s it! Food! That’s what I want! Give me food!” You bend down to put the bowl on the floor, and they practically knock you over trying to get at it. And then what happens? One sniff and they walk out of the kitchen with their tails in the air, as if to say, “Is that what you thought I wanted? You must be joking!”

  I’m sure you have observed, however, that when you return to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, the bowl is empty. I’ll let you in on a little secret: When it comes to food, cats are the same as dogs. They just don’t let you see it.

  In any event, normally when Toby and Pete get home from school, Chester comes out from wherever he’s been hiding to rub up against Toby’s legs and go into his little feed-me dance. This time, however, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Once Howie and I had finished our afternoon snack with Toby and Pete, we set off in search of Chester.

  We sniffed out his usual hiding places—under Toby’s bed, on top of the computer in the den, in the laundry basket. All to no avail.

  Howie even nosed Chester’s favorite catnip mouse under several pieces of furniture where we wouldn’t be able to fit but Chester might. Nothing.

  As we trotted down the stairs after our second search of all the bedrooms, Howie said, “Gee, Uncle Harold, maybe Pop went out the pet door while we were sleeping. Maybe he’s gone after Bunnicula.”

  “I’ve already considered that,” I told Howie. “The only problem is that there would be no way for him to get into the vet’s office once he got there. No, I don’t think that’s what he—”

  It was then that I heard it. Mewing. Pitiful mewing. It was coming from inside the front hall closet.

  Moving quickly, I nudged the door open with my nose. There, atop a jumble of winter boots and fallen jackets, lay Chester. He looked worse than he sounded.

  “Chester!” I cried out. “What’s wrong?”

  He responded with a deep-throated cowlike moan.

  Alarmed, Howie and I went into a frenzy of barking.

  Ordinarily, Chester might have told us to put a lid on it, but I noticed he wasn’t complaining. I also noticed that he looked a lot like Bunnicula had been looking lately—glassy-eyed, lethargic. Maybe Mr. Monroe had been right. Maybe Bunnicula had a virus of some kind. Maybe Chester had it now. Maybe Howie and I were next!

  Just as Toby and Pete came running in from the kitchen, the front door swung open and in walked Mr. Monroe.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his brief-case to the floor.

  “I don’t know,” Pete told his father. “The dogs started barking like crazy and we just got here and—”

  “Look!” Toby grabbed his father’s arm and pulled him toward the closet. Howie and I stopped barking as Chester, who now had all eyes upon him, filled the void with a mewling that sent chills down my spine.

  “Pete, get Chester’s carrier from the garage!” Mr. Monroe commanded. “We’ve got to get him to the doctor right away! And while we’re at it. . .”

  I started to slink away, but made it no farther than the bottom of the stairs before Toby had me by the collar.

  “. . . let’s take Harold and Howie in, too, and have them checked.”

  I’ll spare you the details of my trip to the vet. Suffice it to say it involved a lot of panting, drooling, shaking, and shedding. Fortunately, the vet knows enough to recognize normal canine behavior when he sees it, so Howie and I each received a clean bill of health and were sent home. Chester wasn’t so lucky.

  Of course, as I would learn later, luck had nothing to do with it. Chester was sick, all right, and he was going to have to spend the night at the vet’s, but that was exactly what he wanted.

  “Plant, see?” said Howie, calling out to me from inside the hall closet later that day. He had crawled in there to be close to Chester’s scent and had quickly made an important discovery.

  You’ve heard the expression “Take time to stop and smell the roses?” Well, for cats, it’s “Take time to stop and eat the houseplants.” So the fact that Chester had eaten Pet
e and Toby’s Mother’s Day gift to Mrs. Monroe was not altogether shocking—although he did usually exercise a little more restraint. What was surprising was the fact that he’d hidden the plant’s remains in the back of the hall closet. And when I say remains, I’m talking about a few stems.

  Why had he done it? It didn’t take me long to figure it out.

  “Plan C,” I said to Howie.

  “That’s what I said. Plant, see?”

  “No, Howie, this was Chester’s Plan C. Making himself sick was his way of getting inside the animal hospital. He’s gone after Bunnicula!”

  “What does this mean?” Howie asked.

  “It means,” I said, aware that I was about to sound remarkably like Chester, “that we have a job to do, Howie.”

  “Oh, goody,” Howie said. “Is it washing the dishes? I love that job. Although the last time I licked all the plates clean, Mrs. Monroe came into the kitchen and got all upset as if I’d left some food on them or something. Which I happen to know for a fact I did not. So this time—”

  “Howie!” I snapped. Now I really felt like Chester. “Not that kind of job. A mission, a duty! We have to catch up with Chester before it’s too late!”

  “Then let’s go!” Howie yipped enthusiastically. “We can wash the dishes later!”

  Luckily, the Monroes had gone out for the evening, so it was easy to let ourselves out the pet door and be on our way. And although I hadn’t thought so earlier, it was also a piece of luck that we’d been to the vet’s that day and I had paid attention, because now I knew how to get there. The only problem was how we were going to break in. And then a third piece of luck fell into place. Howie said something that gave me the answer.

  “Wait a minute, Uncle Harold,” he said, coming to a sudden halt after we’d been walking for a few minutes. “We’re not going back to where that skunk was, are we?”

  “No,” I said. “That was Upper Centerville. We’re going in the opposite direction.”

  “Good, because that skunk makes me think about counterfeit pennies, you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Bad scents. Get it, Uncle Harold? Huh, do you get it?”

  I chuckled indulgently. “Yes, Howie,” I said, “very funny.”

  Encouraged, Howie went on. “Do you know what the judge said when the skunk walked in? Odor in the court! Odor in the court! Hey, Uncle Harold, what did one skunk say to the other skunk when he bowed his head? Let us spray! I got a million of ’em, Uncle Harold.”

  “Well, save some for a rainy day,” I told Howie, but he went on anyway. I wasn’t listening, however, because his mentioning the skunk had brought to my mind Bob and Linda. And thinking of Bob and Linda gave me the answer to my problem.

  [ EIGHT ]

  friends and Traitors

  “WHAT are we doing here?” Howie asked a short time later. “I thought you said we were going to the vet’s, but here we are at the movies. Can I get some popcorn?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not going to the movies—or the movie theater,” I explained to Howie. “We’re looking for—”

  I stopped myself when I spotted them coming around the corner of the alley they called their office. There was no mistaking that scrawny gray cat and her fat tabby sidekick. It was Felony and Miss Demeanor, all right. Sisters in crime. Cat burglars. If anyone would know how to break into a locked building, those two would.

  “Felony!” I called out. “Miss Demeanor!”

  They stopped in their tracks, Miss Demeanor clumsily stumbling into Felony’s backside, nearly toppling her over. Felony turned and snarled at her companion, who responded with, “Oh yeah, you and who else?” Ah, they’d lost none of their charm!

  Felony looked in my direction. “Who wants us?” she called out in a voice she probably picked up from watching old gangster movies on cable.

  Howie ran to them, yipping happily. “It’s us, it’s us! Howie and Harold! Remember? From Chateau Bow-Wow last summer?”

  As I loped along behind Howie, I could see Felony’s eyes giving us the once-over. When she did it again, I wanted to ask if it was now called a twice-over but thought better of it.

  Suddenly, recognition lit up her eyes as if someone had turned on a switch.

  “Hey, Miss D.,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  Miss Demeanor, who was maybe an inch behind her, shouted back, “What?”

  “It’s two of those three bozos we met at Chateau Bow-Wow.”

  Miss Demeanor, who looked like she’d have to be completely rewired before anything lit up her blank eyes, drawled, “Uh-huh.”

  Felony scowled. “We ain’t got all night, Miss D. Let me give ya a little hint: Cute Whiskers.”

  “Ooooo,” the fat tabby purred. Cute Whiskers is what she had called Chester. “Now I remember. So where is he?” She looked on either side of us as if we might be hiding him somewhere.

  “That’s why we came to see you,” I said. “You see, Chester is missing.”

  “I always said he was missing,” Felony quipped. “Missing half a deck!” She chortled merrily and Miss Demeanor joined in.

  “No, no, I mean he’s really missing,” I persevered. I explained that it was imperative we break into the animal hospital and rescue Chester right away. I didn’t go into too many details. I was afraid they’d end up siding with Chester and want to help him instead of me. Besides, I had the feeling Felony and Miss Demeanor weren’t exactly cut out for handling more than a few details at a time.

  “I dunno,” Felony said when I’d finished. “We wuz on our way to a big caper. We haven’t got a lotta time to spare.”

  “It won’t take much time,” I promised. “All you have to do is find a way in. We’ll take it from there.”

  Felony turned up a corner of her mouth and made a strange sucking sound. I gathered this was an outward manifestation of some deep inner mental activity.

  “Well (slurp, snap, suck), I guess (snap, slurp, pop) we could consider it (slurp, suck, sizzle) ... ”

  In desperation, I turned to Miss Demeanor. “Don’t do it for us,” I pleaded. “Do it for Cute Whiskers.”

  I couldn’t believe I actually referred to Chester as Cute Whiskers. The words curdled in my mouth. But they worked.

  “Yer right, Harold,” said Miss Demeanor. “Come on, Felony, we gotta help out our fella feline. After all, he helped us out once.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah (smack, slurp, smack).” Felony lowered the corner of her mouth, then turned her head in either direction to make sure she wasn’t being overheard. “We’re breakin’ into the Big Belly Deli, see, and we gotta time it just right. We can’t be late, got it?”

  “I got it,” I said. “Then you’ll do it?”

  “Yeah, we’ll do it—seein’ as how it’s fer Chester an’ all.”

  As we walked away, Miss Demeanor began to purr loudly. “We’re gonna sneak inta the Big Belly Deli at closin’ time and party all night,” she said. “I’m havin’ a corned beef and sardine on rye, and that’s just fer starters.”

  “And I’m havin’ bologna and herring on pumpernickel,” said Felony, “with mustard and maybe a little Tabasco sauce. And then I’m havin’ ... ”

  By the time we reached the animal hospital, I wasn’t sure if I was starved or never wanted to eat again.

  It was just starting to get dark. Luckily, there were very few people around, so it was easy to check out the premises without being noticed. The problem was, the premises appeared to be sealed tight.

  Staring at the heavily bolted back entrance to the building, I sighed. “What was I thinking? There’s no way we can get in.”

  Felony cleared her throat. “I did not come all this way to be insulted,” she said. “You are dealing with professionals here, Harold. If you thought this was going to be a piece of cake, would you have called in professionals?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Miss Demeanor, “and that reminds me—and then I’m gonna have a piece of marble pound cake with a side of potato salad.”
r />   “Did you ever read The Potato Has a Thousand Eyes?” Howie asked.

  Miss Demeanor’s eyes took on the dull luster of tarnished brass. “Read?” she said.

  I sensed we were getting a wee bit off course.

  “Felony,” I said, “how do you imagine—”

  “Window!” Felony snapped.

  “But—”

  “I was thinkin’ we’d have to go in through the ducts, but looky there, Harold.”

  I raised my head in the direction Felony indicated. There, not two feet above my head, was a window. It was open only a crack, but if the two cat burglars could jimmy it all the way, the opening would be large enough for both Howie and me to fit through easily.

  “That’s lucky,” I said.

  Felony turned to Miss D. “Crowbar,” she said.

  “Crowbar,” Miss D. repeated.

  Within minutes, the two cats had come up with a makeshift crowbar and had the window halfway open. I had to admire their dexterity and skill.

  From the other side of the window, I heard a familiar voice call out, “Who is it? Who’s there?”

  “Oh, yoo-hoo, hunky boy!” Miss Demeanor called out. I cringed on Chester’s behalf. “We’re comin’ to get ya, Cute Whiskers!”

  “Cute Whiskers?” I heard Chester repeat from inside. “Is it.. . is that. . . ?”

  “One, two, three!” Felony commanded. The two cats arched their backs against the half-open window and forced it all the way up. We were home-free.

  “It is I! It is me! It is we! It is us!” cried Miss Demeanor in a bravado display of grammatical insecurity.

  I too became insecure at that moment, worrying that the two cats would jump inside and free Chester before I could stop them. I was saved by a remarkable stroke of luck.