Дебора Хоу - The Celery Stalks At Midnight

But just then, I noticed a mailman coming up the sidewalk in my direction. Behind him he pulled a cart. As I ran past, I flung Snowball into the mail-cart and hightailed it as fast as I could to the nearest parked car. Under I went. Chester and Howie were already cowering behind one of the wheels.

We looked out to see envelopes and magazines and packages flying helter-skelter out of the cart and landing all over the sidewalk. Flashes of white fur passed into view from time to time as Snowball tried frantically to escape. Not knowing what else to do, the mailman stood by helplessly, his eyes wide in amazement, his mouth hanging open.

Suddenly, all movement came to an abrupt halt. Then, two white ears crept up over the edge of the cart. The top of a head surfaced. Two dark eyes came into view. Two dark eyes … staring right into mine. My heart sank. My stomach sank. Even my toenails sank. Doomed, I thought, I’m doomed.

Just as Snowball was about to jump out and seal my fate, his owner swept up from behind and scooped him into her loving (and, fortunately for me, strong) arms. As she carried him off toward home, he looked back over her shoulder and shook a clenched paw in my direction.

Riveted to the spot, I watched the mailman bend down and slowly pick up piece after piece of scattered mail.

“Boy, did you see that stuff fly?” Howie whispered. “I guess that’s what they call ‘air mail,’ huh?”

“Nice work, Chester,” I said after I’d caught my breath. My heart was still pounding like a jackhammer.

“A small error of judgment,” Chester replied calmly. “Everyone’s entitled to one small error of judgment.”

“Remind me to be comforted by that when Snowball uses my face as a scratching post,” I said.

Chester regarded me coolly. “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said, “a big dog like you afraid of a little kitty-cat? What kind of example are you setting for young Howie here?”

I was about to set an example for young Howie by sitting on Chester when he suddenly scurried to the other side of the car.

“Look!” Chester cried.

Howie and I joined him and gazed across the street. There, on the opposite sidewalk, we saw what looked like dozens of feet moving down the block.

“Where is everyone going?” Chester asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “What do you make of it?”

“I’m not sure. But there’s something strange about the way those people are moving. Almost as if they were all going to the same place. Look, they’re crossing the road. Why?”

“To get to the other side?” Howie suggested.

Chester didn’t respond. He was too busy watching the people move off down the street.

“What if … what if …” he said suddenly. “What if they’ve already fallen victim to Bunnicula and his zombie vegetables? Let’s follow them.”

“Ernie,” a voice called out from behind us just as we were about to move out from under the car, “did you get those white vegetables that were out in the garden this morning?”

Our ears perked up. We dashed to the other side and looked out from behind a wheel. A man was dumping lawn clippings into a big plastic garbage pail by the sidewalk. His wife was calling to him from the front porch of their house.

“I sure did,” the man named Ernie replied to the woman’s question. “Wasn’t that the weirdest thing? I’ve never seen white vegetables before. Didn’t know what to think. Anyway, I put them in the pail with the weeds.”

“We’ve got to find them,” Chester whispered urgently.

“But Chester, I thought you wanted to follow that crowd of people.”

“First things first,” he replied.

The man picked up the full garbage pail and carried it to a pick-up truck parked in the driveway. I noticed that the truck contained several other pails filled with clippings.

“I’m going to take this stuff down to the dump myself,” the man proclaimed. “No sense waiting for the sanitation men when there’s so much of it.”

“Good idea,” his wife agreed. “Wait a minute. I’ll give you the garbage from the party last night. We may as well get rid of that at the same time.” She went inside the house as the man hoisted the garbage pail over the side of the truck.

“How are we going to find those vegetables now?” I asked. “They’re somewhere inside one of those pails.”

“Obviously we’re going to have to look for them.”

“But how?” I protested. “When? The man’s leaving for the dump any minute.”

“And guess who’s going with him?”

“Oh, now, wait a minute …”

“Are we going for a ride, Pop?” Howie piped up.

“That’s the general idea.”

“Oh, boy!”

“Now, hold on there, Chester,” I said. “I didn’t bargain for a sightseeing tour of the town dump in today’s activities. Besides, you know I get carsick. I’ll … I’ll stay here and … and look for Bunnicula.”

Chester wasn’t having any of my arguments. “It’ll be faster with all three of us looking,” he said. “Besides, the trip to the dump can’t take all that long. We’ll be there and back before you know it.”

The man was inside the truck starting the engine as his wife emptied the extra garbage over the side.

“See you soon, dear,” she said as he started to pull out of the driveway. She went back into the house, and Chester said, “Now’s our chance. Let’s go.”

Chester and I jumped up and over the edge of the truck in one gazelle-like movement. But Howie, who lacks the agility—not to mention the legs—of a gazelle, succeeded only in falling over backward onto the gravel. Frantically, he scampered back and forth by the side of the truck, yipping his head off.

“Sshhh! Harold, get him!” Chester advised.

I leaned over the side and scooped poor Howie up by the scuff of his neck just as the truck turned into the street. With a flip, he landed in the garbage pail next to me.

“This has been a great day for my mouth,” I commented, trying to spit out the dog and cat hairs that coated my tongue. “Do you suppose we could stop for a lemonade?”

Chester gave me a look.

“Let’s start digging,” he said.

Just then, Howie’s head popped up out of the garbage pail. Strands of spaghetti cascaded over his forehead and ears, as tomato sauce ran down the sides of his nose.

“Boy,” he said, licking his chops and catching the rivulets of sauce with his tongue, “that must have been some party they had last night.”

Chapter 5

The Dog in

the Green Toupée

“C’MON, HOWIE,” Chester said, “quit clowning around. We’ve got serious business to take care of.”

“Who’s clowning?” asked Howie, licking his lips. He ducked back down into the garbage pail, his voice calling out from its depths. “There’s some great stuff in here. Corncobs. Melon rinds. Apple strudel. Whipped cream. Oh, and here’s a nice, big, juicy—”

And then all I could hear was a loud crunch.

Chester sighed heavily. “Harold,” he muttered, “could you do something about Howie, please? I believe I’m about to have heart palpitations.”

I looked at my friend Chester and shook my head. “No one ever said it was easy being a father,” I commented.

“Very funny,” he replied. “Now, would you please ask the kid to knock it off?”

I must admit my mouth was watering for a little of that apple strudel, but I decided it would have to wait. After all, my digestive tract would know no peace with Chester champing at the bit the way he was. I knocked on the side of the pail and entreated Howie to remove himself.

Reluctantly, he agreed.

“Can you help me get out of here?” he asked. “I think my foot’s stuck in a ketchup bottle or something.”