Bunnicula Read online

  The little guy was shivering from fear and cold. It was decided that Mr. Monroe and the boys would make a house for him out of an old crate and some heavy-duty wire mesh from the garage. For the night, the boys would make a bed for him in the shoebox. Toby and Pete ran outside to find the crate, and Mrs. Monroe went to the kitchen to get him some milk and lettuce. Mr. Monroe sat down, a dazed expression in his eyes, as if he were wondering how he came to be sitting in his own living room in a wet raincoat with a strange bunny on his lap.

  I signaled to Chester and the two of us casually moseyed over to a corner of the room. We looked at each other.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

  “I don’t think rabbits like milk,” he answered.

  Chester and I were unable to continue our conversation because a deafening crash commanded our attention.

  Pete yelled from the hallway: “Maaa! Toby broke the rabbit’s house!”

  “I didn’t, I just dropped it. Pete won’t let me carry it.”

  “It’s too big. Toby’s too little.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are, too!”

  “Okay, fellas,” Mrs. Monroe called out as she entered with the milk and lettuce. “Let’s try to get it in here with as little hysteria as possible, please.”

  Chester turned to me and said under his breath, “That lettuce looks repulsive, but if there’s any milk left, I get it.” I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him. I’m a water man myself.

  At that moment, the crate arrived, barely standing the strain of being pulled in two directions at once.

  “Ma, Toby says he’s going to keep the rabbit in his room. That’s not fair. Harold sleeps in his room.”

  Only sometimes, I thought, when I know he’s got a leftover ham sandwich in his drawer. Toby’s a nice kid, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t hurt that he shares his stash with me. It was, after all, at one of those late night parties in Toby’s room that I first developed my taste for chocolate cake. And Toby, noting my preference, has kept me in chocolate cake ever since. Pete, on the other hand, doesn’t believe in sharing. And the only time I tried to sleep on his bed, he rolled over on me and pinned me by my ears so that I couldn’t move for the rest of the night. I had a crick in my neck for days.

  “But he’s mine,” Toby said. “I found him.”

  “You sat on him, you mean!”

  “I found him, and he’s sleeping in my room.”

  “You can keep smelly ol’ Harold in your room, and Chester, too, if you want to, but I’m going to keep the rabbit in mine.”

  Smelly ol’ Harold! I would have bitten his ankle, but I knew he hadn’t changed his socks for a week. Smelly, indeed!

  Mr. Monroe spoke up. “I think the best place for the rabbit is right here in the living room on that table by the window. It’s light there, and he’ll get lots of fresh air.”

  “Pete’s taller than I am,” Toby cried. “He’ll be able to see the rabbit better.”

  “Too bad, squirt.”

  “Okay,” said Mrs. Monroe through clenched teeth, “let’s put him to bed and make him comfortable, and then we can all get some sleep.”

  “Why?” Pete asked. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

  Mrs. Monroe smiled a little too sweetly at Pete.

  “Look, Ma,” said Toby, “he’s not drinking his milk.”

  Chester nudged me in the ribs. “Didn’t I tell you?” he asked. “Excuse me while I make myself available.”

  “Hey,” said Toby, “we gotta name him.”

  “Can’t that wait until tomorrow?” asked Mr. Monroe.

  The boys shouted in unison: “No! He has to have a name right now.” I have to say I agreed with them. It took them three days to name me, and those were the three most anxious days of my life. I couldn’t sleep at all, worrying that they were really going to call me Fluffy as Mrs. Monroe had suggested.

  “Well, all right,” sighed Mrs. Monroe, “what about . . . oh, say . . . Bun-Bun?”

  Oh, oh. There she goes again, I thought. Where does she get them?

  “Yech!” we all said.

  “Well, then, how about Fluffy?” she offered hopefully.

  Pete looked at his mother and smiled. “You never give up, do you, Ma?”

  Meanwhile, Chester (who had also been named Fluffy for a short time) was rubbing against Mrs. Monroe’s ankles and purring loudly.

  “No, Chester, not now,” she said, pushing him aside.

  “He wants to help us name him, don’t you Chester?” Toby asked, as he scooped him up into his arms. Chester shot me a look. I could tell this was not what he had in mind.

  “Come on, Harold,” Toby called, “you’ve got to help with the name, too.”

  I joined the family and serious thinking began. We all peered into the box. It was the first time I had really seen him. So, this is a rabbit, I thought. He sort of looks like Chester, only he’s got longer ears and a shorter tail. And a motor in his nose.

  “Well,” said Pete, after a moment, “since we found him at the movies, why don’t we call him Mr. Johnson?”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Who’s Mr. Johnson?” asked Toby.

  “The guy who owns the movie theater,” Pete answered.

  No one seemed to like the idea.

  “How about Prince?” said Mr. Monroe.

  “Dad,” said Toby, “are you kidding?”

  “Well, I had a dog named Prince once,” he replied lamely.

  Prince, I thought, that’s a silly name for a dog.

  “We found him at a Dracula movie. Let’s call him Dracula,” Toby said.

  “That’s a stupid name,” said Pete.

  “No, it’s not! And anyway, I found him, so I should get to name him.”

  “Mom, you’re not going to let him name him, are you? That’s favoritism, and I’ll be traumatized if you do.”

  Mrs. Monroe looked in wonder at Pete.

  “Please Mom, please Dad, let’s name him Dracula,” cried Toby, “please, please, please.” And with each please, he squeezed Chester a little harder.

  Mrs. Monroe picked up the bowl of milk and moved toward the kitchen. Chester followed her every movement with his eyes, which now seemed to be popping out of his head. When she reached the kitchen door, she turned back and said, “Let’s not have any more arguments. We’ll compromise. He’s a bunny and we found him at a Dracula movie, so we’ll call him Bunny-cula. Bunnicula! That should make everybody happy, including me.”

  “What about me?” muttered Chester. “I won’t be happy until she puts down that milk.”

  “Well, guys, is that okay with you?” she asked.

  Toby and Pete looked at one another. And then at the rabbit. A smile grew on Toby’s face.

  “Yeah, Ma, I think that name is just right.”

  Pete shrugged. “It’s okay. But I get to feed him.”

  “Okay, I’m going to put the milk back in the fridge. Maybe he’ll drink it tomorrow.”

  “What about Chester?” Toby said, dropping the frantic cat to the floor. “Maybe he would like it.” Chester made a beeline for Mrs. Monroe and looked up at her plaintively.

  “Oh, Chester doesn’t want any more milk, do you, Chester? You’ve already had your milk today.” She reached down, patted Chester on his head, and walked into the kitchen. Chester didn’t move.

  “Okay, bedtime,” said Mr. Monroe.

  “Good night, Bunnicula,” Toby said.

  “Good night, Count Bunnicula,” Pete said sarcastically, in what I took to be his attempt at a Transylvanian accent. I may be wrong but I thought I saw a flicker of movement from the cage.

  “Good night, Harold. Good night, Chester.” I licked Toby good night.

  “Good night, smelly Harold. Good night, dumb Chester.” I drooled on Pete’s foot. “Mom, Harold drooled on my foot!”

  “Good night, Pete!” Mrs. Monroe said with great finality as she came back into the living room, and then more calmly
, “Good night, Harold. Good night, Chester.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Monroe went up the stairs together.

  “You know, dear,” Mr. Monroe said, “that was very clever. Bunnicula. I could never have thought of a name like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Robert.” She smiled as she put her arm through his. “I think Prince is a lovely name, too.”

  The room was quiet. Chester was still sitting by the closed kitchen door in a state of shock. Slowly, he turned to me.

  “I wish they had named him Fluffy,” was all he said.

  Two

  Music in the Night

  I feel at this time there are a few things you should know about Chester. He is not your ordinary cat. (But then, I’m not your ordinary dog, since an ordinary dog wouldn’t be writing this book, would he?)

  Chester came into the house several years ago as a birthday gift for Mr. Monroe, along with two volumes of G. K. Chesterton (hence the name, Chester) and a first edition of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. As a result of this introduction to literature, and given the fact that Mr. Monroe is an English professor, Chester developed a taste of reading early in life. (I, on the other hand, have developed a taste for books. I found Jonathan Livingston Seagull particularly delicious.) From Chester’s kittenhood on, Mr. Monroe has used him as a sounding board for all his student lectures. If Chester doesn’t fall asleep when Mr. Monroe is talking, the lecture can be counted a success.

  Every night when the family is sleeping, Chester goes to the bookshelf, selects his midnight reading, and curls up on his favorite chair. He especially likes mystery stories and tales of horror and the supernatural. As a result, he has developed a very vivid imagination.

  I’m telling you this because I think it’s important for you to know something of Chester’s background before I relate to you the story of the events following the arrival of Bunnicula into our home. Let me begin with that first night.

  It seems that after I went to sleep, Chester, still stewing over the lost milk, settled down with his latest book and attempted to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The room was dark and quiet. This did not prevent his reading, of course, since as you know, cats can see in the dark. A shaft of moonlight fell across the rabbit’s cage and spilled onto the floor below. The wind and rain had stopped and, as Chester read Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” he became increasingly aware of the eerie stillness that had taken their place. As Chester tells it, he suddenly felt compelled to look at the rabbit.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” he said to me the next morning, “but a cold chill ran down my spine.”

  The little bunny had begun to move for the first time since he had been put in his cage. He lifted his tiny nose and inhaled deeply, as if gathering sustenance from the moonlight.

  “He slicked his ears back close to his body, and for the first time,” Chester said, “I noticed the peculiar marking on his forehead. What had seemed an ordinary black spot between his ears took on a strange v-shape, which connected with the big black patch that covered his back and each side of his neck. It looked as if he was wearing a coat . . . no, more like a cape than a coat.”

  Through the silence had drifted the strains of a remote and exotic music.

  “I could have sworn it was a gypsy violin,” Chester told me. “I thought perhaps a caravan was passing by, so I ran to the window.”

  I remembered my mother telling me something about caravans when I was a puppy. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what.

  “What’s a caravan?” I asked, feeling a little stupid.

  “A caravan is a band of gypsies traveling through the forest in their wagons,” Chester answered.

  “Ah, yes.” It was coming back to me now. “Station wagons?”

  “No, covered wagons! The gypsies travel all through the land, setting up camps around great bonfires, doing magical tricks, and sometimes, if you cross their palms with a piece of silver, they’ll tell your fortune.”

  “You mean if I gave them a fork, they’d tell my fortune?” I asked, breathlessly.

  Chester looked at me with disdain. “Save your silverware,” he said. “It wasn’t a caravan after all.”

  I was disappointed. “What was it?” I asked.

  Chester explained that when he looked out the window, he saw Professor Mickelwhite, our next door neighbor, playing the violin in his living room. He listened for a few moments to the haunting melody and sighed with relief. I’ve really got to stop reading these horror stories late at night, he thought. It’s beginning to affect my mind. He yawned and turned to go back to his chair and get some sleep. As he turned, however, he was startled by what he saw.

  There in the moonlight, as the music filtered through the air, sat the bunny, his eyes intense and staring, an unearthly aura about them.

  “Now, this is the part you won’t believe,” Chester said to me, “but as I watched, his lips parted in a hideous smile, and where a rabbit’s buck teeth should have been, two little pointed fangs glistened.”

  I wasn’t sure what to make of Chester’s story, but the way he told it, it set my hair on end.

  Three

  Some Unusual Goings-On

  The next few days passed uneventfully. I was very bored. Our new arrival slept all day, and Chester, whose curiosity had been aroused by the strange behavior of the rabbit that first night, had decided to stay awake every night to observe him. Therefore, he, too, spent most of his days sleeping. So I had no one to talk to.

  The evenings weren’t much better. Toby and Pete, who used to play with me as soon as they got home from school, now ran immediately to that silly rabbit’s cage to play with him. Or at least they’d try to. Bunnicula did not make the most energetic playmate. It took him quite a while to wake up each night and then when he did awaken, he didn’t do much except hop around the living room. He didn’t play catch, he didn’t fetch, he didn’t roll over to get his tummy rubbed. I couldn’t understand why they played with him at all. I expect it was because he was new and different. But I was confident that they would soon tire of him and come back to trusty ol’ Harold.

  Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, I caught Chester bleary-eyed over the water dish. He grumbled at me in a most unpleasant manner.

  “You know, Chester, you were never exactly charming in the morning, but lately you’ve become downright grumpy.”

  Chester growled in response.

  “What are you doing this for anyway? What are you looking for? He’s just a cute little bunny.”

  “Cute little bunny!” Chester was amazed at my character analysis. “That’s what you think. He’s a danger to this household and everyone in it.”

  “Oh, Chester,” I said, with an indulgent smile, “I think your reading has gone to your head.”

  “It’s just because I do read that I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, what are you talking about? I still don’t understand.”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I know there’s something funny about that rabbit. That’s why I have to keep alert.”

  “But look at you—you’re exhausted. You sleep all the time. How can you call that alert?”

  “I’m awake when it’s important. He sleeps all day, so I sleep all day.”

  “So just what have you seen since that first night that makes you uneasy?”

  “Well . . . ” said Chester, “I, uh . . . that is . . .” At this point, Chester started to bathe his tail, which is a cat’s way of changing a subject he finds uncomfortable. He then stumbled sleepily into the living room.

  “So?” I asked again, following him, “what have you seen?”

  “Nothing!” he snapped, and proceeded to curl up on his chair to go to sleep. After a moment, he opened one eye. “But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see.”

  For the next few mornings, it was the same routine. I’d be ready for a good romp around the living room, and Chester would go to sleep. Pete and Toby were at school. Mr. M
onroe was at the university (he never did too much romping around, anyway). And Mrs. Monroe was at her office.

  No one to play with poor, neglected Harold. At first, I thought I could strike up a friendship with Bunnicula and maybe teach him a few tricks. But I could never wake him up. He was always waking up just about sunset, when I wanted to take a snooze. A rabbit, I concluded, is cute to look at, but is generally useless, especially as a companion to dogs. So, I would retire each day with my favorite shoe to the rug and chew.

  Now, some people (especially Mr. and Mrs. Monroe) can’t understand my taste for shoes and yell at me for snacking on them. But I always say there’s no accounting for taste. For instance, I remember one evening when Mr. Monroe picked some of his sour balls out of the bowl by his chair and dropped a green one on the floor. He didn’t notice as it rolled across the room and landed near my nose. I decided this was a perfect opportunity to try one for myself. I placed it in my mouth . . . and wished immediately that I hadn’t. As the tears started running out of my eyes, I thought, What’s wrong with my mouth?! It’s turning inside out!

  Mr. Monroe immediately noticed that something had happened. “What’s the matter, Harold? Are you looking for someone to kiss?”

  “Help! Help!” I wanted to cry, but all that came out was an “ooooo” sound. I “ooooo”-ed for days.

  So how can anyone who likes green sourballs criticize me for preferring a nice penny loafer or a bedroom slipper?

  But back to the matter at hand:

  One morning, Chester had news.

  “That bunny,” he whispered to me across our food bowls, “got out of his cage last night.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “How could he break through that wire? Look how little he is.”

  “That’s just it! He didn’t break through any wire. He got out of his cage without breaking anything, or opening any doors!”