Джеймс Хоу - Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

Needless to say, Chester had his own thoughts on the subject.

“I don’t think it’s any mystery where Bunnicula is,” Chester told Howie and me when we were out on the front porch for a post-breakfast bath and nap. I’m pleased to report that I scored two strips of bacon, a mere one hundred and twelve shy of what I feel certain I could digest without tummy troubles. “Clearly it’s all a pretense, an act, a charade, a sham ...”

“Chester” I yawned, “have you been at the thesaurus again? We get your point. Sort of. Well, actually, not at all.”

“Fine. Then try to stay awake, Harold, and I’ll explain. Obviously, Miles and Edgar—partners in crime—have Bunnicula stashed away in their room.”

“How is that obvious?” I asked. “We saw Bunnicula on the loose.”

“We did indeed, Harold. We saw him on the loose until we didn’t see him anymore. And when did we stop seeing him?”

“This is impossible to follow,” I said. “Could you make the questions multiple choice?”

Chester ignored me and went on. “We stopped seeing him after Miles and Edgar went around the corner of the house. I feel certain that he’s in the guest room in that black bag, undoubtedly in an especially deep sleep because of all the vegetable juices he’s imbibed.”

“But Pop,” said Howie, “what about the pumpkin and the vegetables in the kitchen?”

“And seeing him before we stopped seeing him,” I put in.

“Oh, he got out. They were counting on that. But then Miles caught him, don’t you understand? He caught him, and hid him under his cape, and took him back up to his room.”

“But why? Why would they do it?” My head was starting to hurt.

“They have plans for him, Harold. They wanted to see if he was as unusual as Pete’s letter made him out to be. That’s why Miles asked for undressed salad to be available at all times and for Bunnicula to be placed in his room.”

Howie began giggling.

“What is so funny?” Chester asked.

“Undressed salad,” Howie said, and the giggling got louder.

Chester heaved a sigh, shook his head, and continued. “Bunnicula, enticed by the lettuce on the night table, got out of his cage, drained the greens, and then—his unnatural appetite whetted—slipped out the door to go down to the kitchen and from there to the garden down the street. Edgar followed him—undoubtedly with the help of the head crow and the gang of varmints in the backyard—and then returned to wait for Miles. And now they have him in that black bag, right where they want him, and what they’re going to do with him is anybody’s guess. But I’ll tell you this: Whatever else is in that bag—it’s not meant for anything good.”

It all sounded a little crazy, but then I thought back to everything that had happened. And I began to wonder: Were we really harboring a madman—and a no-good crow—under our roof? Was Bunnicula in danger of being transformed into some kind of steel-plated monster? And would I ever have a conversation with Chester that didn’t end up giving me a headache?

It was too much to think about. I did the only thing a dog could do under the circumstances. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep.

EIGHT

Too Late?

Imanaged to get about two-thirds of my normal morning naptime in before the tapping started.

“Chester,” I mumbled, “get off my eyeballs.”

“Then wake up, Harold. This is urgent.”

Recalling our last conversation and thinking that Bunnicula might indeed be in the black bag in the guest room, I forced my eyes open.

“People are going to arrive soon, Harold. We have to act fast. Toby and Mrs. Monroe are out looking for Bunnicula, not that they’re going to find him. And Mr. Monroe is in the kitchen making lunch.”

“Does he need help?” I asked, suddenly wide awake. “Is that what’s urgent?” There was the smell of pot roast in the air. The urgent smell of pot roast.

“No, he does not need help,” Chester said emphatically. “Now pay attention. Pete’s up in his room doing who knows what, and Howie’s in there doing who knows what with him. The point is, the coast was finally clear, so I stationed myself outside the guest room, and you will not believe what I heard! Bunnicula’s in danger, Harold. Real and immediate danger.”

The hairs began to rise along my back. “What makes you think so?”

“I heard Miles say to Edgar, ‘He doesn’t have to remain a rabbit. I could turn him into a bat, like the others.’ The others, Harold! There have been others before Bunnicula! And then he said, ‘Yes, I’ll do it!’ And then he said, ‘Edgar, what would I do without you?’”

“So Edgar really is his right-hand bird,” I commented.

Chester narrowed his eyes and nodded knowingly. “I told you that crow was no good.”

“But he hasn’t said ‘nevermore,’” I pointed out.

“When he gets his voice back, he will, Harold. But we’ve got to stop him before he does. We’ve got to stop them both!”

“But how? What can we do?”

“We have to break into the room. Right away, before it’s too late. Follow me.”

I gulped. We could get into serious trouble, breaking into the guest room. But I was convinced we had no choice.

As we climbed the stairs I was haunted by several thoughts:

1. Bunnicula might already have been turned into a bat.

2. I, too, might be turned into a bat.

3. That pot roast sure smells good.

When we got to the guest room door, it was wide open. Chester and I poked our heads in.

“There’s no one here,” I observed.

“No one except Bunnicula,” Chester said.

“Bunnicula? Where? I don’t see him.”

Chester nodded in the direction of the black bag sitting on the bed. “I’ll try to set him free, while you stand guard,” he said. “Hopefully, the transformation hasn’t already taken place.”

I have to admit I was rather touched by Chester’s new protectiveness toward Bunnicula. For years he had tried to destroy the bunny, believing he was a vampire. But then, after saving Bunnicula from a near-death experience, Chester changed his tune. He still thinks Bunnicula is a vampire, but he has become his friend and protector. “After all,” he reasons, “Bunnicula only attacks vegetables. What’s the harm in that?”

I cannot tell you how many times in the past I had said those very same words to Chester. But Chester has to come to things in his own time, in his own way, before he’ll believe them to be true.

“Are you standing guard?” he asked.

“Standing guard,” I replied as he jumped up on the bed.

My eyes and ears were open to the prospect of Miles’s or Edgar’s return from wherever they’d gone. But it was not my eyes or ears that tipped me off to trouble. It was my nose. Being a dog, I have a finely tuned sense of smell, and I admit that it was fully engaged with the pleasurable scent of pot roast wafting up from the kitchen. So fully engaged, in fact, that at first I didn’t notice the other odor coming from the opposite direction. When I did smell it, it set off an alarm in my brain at once.

“Chester!” I cried. “We may be too late!”

Chester looked up abruptly from where he was hunched over Miles’s black bag. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I’ve almost got this clasp open!”

“But I don’t think Bunnicula is in there,” I told him. “I think he’s in another room, being transformed into a bat this very minute! Can’t you smell it?”

Chester lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “You’re right!” he gasped. “That does smell like a bunny being transformed into a bat!”