Дебора Хоу - Bunnicula

The impact, however, occurred gradually. One day I found an envelope in my mailbox with my name and address written in pencil in a childlike hand. What in the world can this be? I asked myself as I tore it open and withdrew the letter from inside. No wonder the handwriting had been childlike—the letter was from a child. It had never occurred to me that I would get actual letters from actual readers!

And then there was my first invitation to speak in a school. When the day came, I wore a three-piece suit—that’s how important I thought it was. When Bunnicula won its first children’s choice award—Nebraska’s Golden Sower Award—I scribbled my acceptance speech on a scrap of paper while on the plane to Lincoln, Nebraska, only to be informed when I arrived that I was the morning program—three hours’ worth!—for an audience of librarians and teachers. It was that morning that I discovered I could think—and talk —on my feet!

But I was discovering something else as well. Not only was Bunnicula becoming a popular book, it was taking on a life of its own—and that life was turning my life into the story with thousands of characters and unexpected plot twists. The large cast of characters included readers and parents, teachers and librarians, fellow authors and illustrators, and a vast array of publishing people—all of whom were absolutely devoted to something called “children’s literature.” I was becoming part of a world I hadn’t even known existed a few short years ago.

In 1981 I left my job with the literary agency where I had worked for seven years, gave up my aspirations of becoming a theater director, and did what my mother had always said I should do. I became a writer. That year, I completed Howliday Inn , the first of five sequels to Bunnicula . That was also the year, I believe, that I was invited to be on a local TV children’s talk show in Baltimore, Maryland. I was on for all of two minutes at the end of the program, and the first question I was asked (by a twelve-year-old girl) was, “Why did you put all those hard words in your book?”

Hard words? I had no idea I had put hard words in Bunnicula . I don’t remember what I answered, beyond, “Uh, um, er …,” but I have often thought of that moment because it made me grateful that Debbie and I had not really known what we were doing when we wrote the book. We had no idea what kinds of books children were reading or how we might gear the vocabulary or sentence structure or humor to someone younger than ourselves. We wrote a book that made us laugh, that entertained us first and foremost.

And that is a key to the book’s success, I think, because in writing something that truly made us laugh, we were able to make others laugh as well. Through the years, I have often been told that Bunnicula has opened the door to reading for many children—even with all those hard words. What an unexpected plot twist that was!

There have been many other plot twists to Bunnicula —awards; translations into foreign languages; two audiotape versions; play adaptations that have been staged all across the country; an animated TV special back in the 1980s; the hope of a movie even now (my fingers are crossed as I type this, which, let me tell you, is no mean feat!); picture books, chapter books, activity books, a joke book, and a pop-up book; a series featuring Howie the dachshund puppy (one of my favorite characters to write, Howie showed up unexpectedly at the end of Howliday Inn and has been an important part of the books ever since); letters and letters and more letters from readers; and, now, a whole new generation of readers. But the best plot twist of all is still the fact that this book has opened the door for so many young people to enter the world of reading.

Bunnicula opened the door wide for me as well—to a life of writing and a world of characters—both real and fictional—that I could never have imagined sitting at that tomato-red kitchen table so long ago.

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

Chapter 1 - The Arrival

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.