Bunnicula Strikes Again! (7 page)

“Egypt!” Chester snapped, cutting Howie off. “They were in ancient Egypt, Howie, and the two of you look like ancient Romans, and there is an actual difference between ancient Egypt and ancient Rome, and why I even bother to bring up historical or literary references with you two dolts is beyond me!”

Chester kept on ranting, but I'm not sure what else he had to say. Drowsy from my bath and the room's warmth, I nodded off somewhere around “historical or literary references.” When I regained consciousness, he was carrying on about Plan B.

“So we've got to keep our eye on him at all times,” he was saying, “because if he does start making connections, there's no stopping him. Either we have to prevent their reuniting entirely or, better
yet, use Bunnicula to lead us to his mother. He may still be weak, but even so I'm going to need your help. Maybe we should work in shifts.”

“We have to put on
dresses?”
Howie whined.

Chester grimaced. “We'll
take turns,
okay?”

“Oh.”

Just then, Mr. Monroe came into the room to give us a final rubdown. He looked at us and smiled.

“Chester, you look like you're addressing the Roman Senate,” he said.

“Uncanny,” Chester commented after Mr. Monroe had left.

“Yes,” I said, thinking of yesterday's breakfast, “it was nice having fresh meat for a change, wasn't it?”

“Hey, Uncle Harold,” Howie said. “I get it. Fresh meat. Uncanny. That was pretty good.”

“Thanks, Howie,” I said, leaving it at that. It's embarrassing when you make a joke and don't even realize it.

The night watch began. Why I was supporting Chester's harebrained scheme I don't know. Sometimes you just find yourself doing things Chester expects you to do. So I volunteered to take the first shift, figuring that it would be better to get it over
with and have the rest of the night for uninterrupted sleep. What I hadn't counted on was the discovery I would make while I was on duty, one that would keep me awake—and alert—the whole night.

Bunnicula was sick. Really sick. Far weaker than he would be from Chester's depriving him of his carrot juice. He wasn't moving at all. When I talked to him, his ears didn't twitch or stir as they normally did. At times, it seemed he wasn't even breathing.

Not wanting to alarm Howie, I let him sleep through his shift. As for Chester, well, I tried to convince him that Bunnicula was in trouble, but he wasn't having any of it.

“Either he misses his mother or he's faking” was his unscientifically arrived at diagnosis. “Neither one is fatal, Harold. And if it is—”

“Chester! What are you saying?”

“I think you know what I'm saying, Harold.”

Desperately seeking some way of comprehending Chester's devious mind, I asked, “Chester, are you still drinking Bunnicula's juice?”

“Not all the time,” he answered, “although I have developed a taste for the stuff. No, I have other ways of foiling his plans now.”

“But, Chester, he may be really sick,” I said.

“Harold, once and for all, you've got to understand. Bunnicula is
not
the Easter bunny. He's a spinach sucker! The bane of broccoli! A bad rabbit with bad habits! If he can lead us to his mother, we may be able to put an end to this race of terrorizing hares once and for all!”

“But, Chester, you said yourself, he probably hasn't made any connections yet, and he certainly isn't going anywhere. He can barely move. How is he going to lead us to his mother when he can't lift his head?”

Chester narrowed his eyes to slits. “Don't underestimate his vampirical powers. Believe me, Harold, if he can't lead us to his mother, he will somehow manage to bring his mother here to him. You can lead a horse of a different color to water but it's still a horse.”

Don't ask.

As it turned out, Bunnicula did go somewhere, but it was not under his own powers—vampirical or otherwise.

Unable to stand it any longer, I woke Toby just
before dawn and dragged him by the sleeve of his pajamas downstairs to Bunnicula's cage. It didn't take him long to get the picture.

“Mom! Dad! Come quick!” he shouted. “Bunnicula's really sick! I think he's going to die!”

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe raced down the stairs. Mr. Monroe, still half asleep, tumbled over the armchair, which sent Chester flying. Chester's indignant screech in turn woke Howie, who bolted from under the coffee table just in time to get tangled in Mr. Monroe's legs. Nobody, other than Chester, seemed to notice or care, though. All eyes were on Bunnicula.

“Oh, Robert,” said Mrs. Monroe, touching her husband's arm as he opened the cage and lifted the limp, languid rabbit from it. “I
knew
we should have taken him to the vet on Saturday. We've waited too long.”

Mr. Monroe held Bunnicula close to his chest. “His breathing seems normal, if a bit slow,” he said, stroking the bunny lovingly. “But there's definitely something wrong with him. I'll call Dr. Greenbriar right away and leave a message that I'm bringing
Bunnicula in on my way to work this morning. I'm pretty sure his downtown office is open early on Mondays.”

“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.

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.