Bunnicula: A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery (2 page)

Despite the difference in our ages, Harold is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Perhaps he is one of yours, too. Or perhaps you are about to meet him for the first time as you turn the pages that follow. Welcome—or welcome back—to his story, and thank you for being a part of my own.

—J.H.

Editor’s Note

The book you are about to read was brought to my attention in a most unusual way. One Friday afternoon, just before closing time, I heard a scratching sound at the front door of my office. When I opened the door, there before me stood a sad-eyed, droopy-eared dog carrying a large, plain envelope in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet, gave me a soulful glance and with great, quiet dignity sauntered away.

Inside the envelope was the manuscript of the book you now hold in your hands, together with this letter:

Gentlemen:

The enclosed story is true. It happened in this very town, to me and the family with whom I reside. I have changed the names of the family in order to protect them, but in all other respects, everything you will read here is factual.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harold. I come to writing purely by chance. My full-time occupation is dog. I live with Mr. and Mrs. X (called here the “Monroes”) and their two sons: Toby, age eight, and Pete, age ten. Also sharing our home is a cat named Chester, whom I am pleased to call my friend. We were a typical American family—and still are, though the events related in my story have, of course, had their effect on our lives.

I hope you will find this tale of sufficient interest to yourself and your readers to warrant its publication.

Sincerely,
Harold X

I shall never forget the first time I laid these now tired old eyes on our visitor. I had been left home by the family with the admonition to take care of the house until they returned. That’s something they always say to me when they go out: “Take care of the house, Harold. You’re the watchdog.” I think it’s their way of making up for not taking me with them. As if I
wanted
to go anyway. You can’t lie down at the movies and still see the screen. And people think you’re being impolite if you fall asleep and start to snore, or scratch yourself in public. No thank you, I’d rather be stretched out on my favorite rug in front of a nice, whistling radiator.

But I digress. I was talking about that first night. Well, it was cold, the rain was pelting the windows, the wind was howling, and it felt pretty good to be indoors. I was lying on the rug with my head on my paws just staring absently at the front door. My friend Chester was curled up on the brown velvet armchair, which years ago he’d staked out as his own. I saw that once again he’d covered the whole seat with his cat hair, and I chuckled to myself, picturing the scene tomorrow. (Next to grasshoppers, there is nothing that frightens Chester more than the vacuum cleaner.)

In the midst of this reverie, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I didn’t even bother to get up and see who it was. I knew it had to be my family—the Monroes—since it was just about time for the movie to be over. After a moment, the front door flew open. There they stood in the doorway: Toby and Pete and Mom and Dad Monroe. There was a flash of lightning, and in its glare I noticed that Mr. Monroe was carrying a little bundle—a bundle with tiny glistening eyes.

Pete and Toby bounded into the room, both talking at the top of their lungs. Toby shouted, “Put him over here, Dad.”

“Take your boots off. You’re soaking wet,” replied his mother, somewhat calmly I thought, under the circumstances.

“But Mom, what about the—”

“First, stop dripping on the carpet.”

“Would somebody like to take this?” asked Mr. Monroe, indicating the bundle with the eyes. “I’d like to remove my coat.”

“I will,” Pete yelled.

“No, I will,” said Toby. “I found him.”

“You’ll drop him.”

“I will not.”

“You will, too.”

“Mom, Pete punched me!”

“
I’ll
take him,” said Mrs. Monroe. “Take off your coats this minute!” But she became so involved in helping the boys out of their coats that she didn’t take him at all.

My tranquil evening had been destroyed and no one had even said hello to me. I whimpered to remind them that I was there.

“Harold!” cried Toby. “Guess what happened to me.” And then, all over again, everyone started talking at once.

At this point, I feel I must explain something. In our family, everyone treats everyone else with great respect for his or her intelligence. That goes for the animals as well as the people. Everything that happens to them is explained to us. It’s never been just “Good boy, Harold,” or “Use the litter box, Chester” at our house. Oh no, with us it’s “Hey Harold, Dad got a raise and now we’re in a higher tax bracket,” or “Come sit on the bed, Chester, and watch this
Wild Kingdom
show. Maybe you’ll see a relative.” Which shows just how thoughtful they are. But after all, Mr. Monroe
is
a college professor and Mrs. Monroe
is
a lawyer, so we think of it as a rather special household. And we are, therefore, rather special pets. So it wasn’t at all surprising to me that they took the time to explain the strange circumstances surrounding the arrival of the little bundle with the glistening eyes now among us.

It seems that they had arrived at the theater late, and rather than trip over the feet of the audience already seated, they decided to sit in the last row, which was empty. They tiptoed in and sat down very quietly, so they wouldn’t disturb anyone. Suddenly, Toby, who’s the little one, sprang up from his chair and squealed that he had sat on something. Mr. Monroe told him to stop making a fuss and move to another seat, but in an unusual display of independence, Toby said he wanted to see just what it was he had sat on. An usher came over to their row to shush them, and Mr. Monroe borrowed his flashlight. What they found on Toby’s chair was the little blanketed bundle that was now sitting on Mr. Monroe’s lap.

They now unwrapped the blanket, and there in the center was a tiny black and white rabbit, sitting in a shoebox filled with dirt. A piece of paper had been tied to his neck with a ribbon. There were words on the paper, but the Monroes were unable to decipher them because they were in a totally unfamiliar language. I moved closer for a better look.

Now, most people might call me a mongrel, but I have some pretty fancy bloodlines running through these veins and Russian wolfhound happens to be one of them. Because my family got around a lot, I was able to recognize the language as an obscure dialect of the Carpathian Mountain region. Roughly translated, it read, “Take good care of my baby.” But I couldn’t tell if it was a note from a bereaved mother or a piece of Roumanian sheet music.

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.