Дебора Хоу - Bunnicula

“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.

“Dad,” said Toby, “are you kidding?”

“Well, I had a dog named Prince once,” he replied lamely.

Prince, I thought, that’s a silly name for a dog.

“We found him at a Dracula movie. Let’s call him Dracula,” Toby said.

“That’s a stupid name,” said Pete.

“No, it’s not! And anyway, I found him, so I should get to name him.”

“Mom, you’re not going to let him name him, are you? That’s favoritism, and I’ll be traumatized if you do.”

Mrs. Monroe looked in wonder at Pete.

“Please Mom, please Dad, let’s name him Dracula,” cried Toby, “please, please, please.” And with each please , he squeezed Chester a little harder.

Mrs. Monroe picked up the bowl of milk and moved toward the kitchen. Chester followed her every movement with his eyes, which now seemed to be popping out of his head. When she reached the kitchen door, she turned back and said, “Let’s not have any more arguments. We’ll compromise. He’s a bunny and we found him at a Dracula movie, so we’ll call him Bunny-cula. Bun ni cula! That should make everybody happy, including me.”

“What about me?” muttered Chester. “I won’t be happy until she puts down that milk.”

“Well, guys, is that okay with you?” she asked.

Toby and Pete looked at one another. And then at the rabbit. A smile grew on Toby’s face.

“Yeah, Ma, I think that name is just right.”

Pete shrugged. “It’s okay. But I get to feed him.”

“Okay, I’m going to put the milk back in the fridge. Maybe he’ll drink it tomorrow.”

“What about Chester?” Toby said, dropping the frantic cat to the floor. “Maybe he would like it.” Chester made a beeline for Mrs. Monroe and looked up at her plaintively.

“Oh, Chester doesn’t want any more milk, do you, Chester? You’ve already had your milk today.” She reached down, patted Chester on his head, and walked into the kitchen. Chester didn’t move.

“Okay, bedtime,” said Mr. Monroe.

“Good night, Bunnicula,” Toby said.

“Good night, Count Bunnicula,” Pete said sarcastically, in what I took to be his attempt at a Transylvanian accent. I may be wrong but I thought I saw a flicker of movement from the cage.

“Good night, Harold. Good night, Chester.” I licked Toby good night.

“Good night, smelly Harold. Good night, dumb Chester.” I drooled on Pete’s foot. “Mom, Harold drooled on my foot!”

“ Good night, Pete! ” Mrs. Monroe said with great finality as she came back into the living room, and then more calmly, “Good night, Harold. Good night, Chester.”

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe went up the stairs together.

“You know, dear,” Mr. Monroe said, “that was very clever. Bunnicula. I could never have thought of a name like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Robert.” She smiled as she put her arm through his. “I think Prince is a lovely name, too.”

The room was quiet. Chester was still sitting by the closed kitchen door in a state of shock. Slowly, he turned to me.

“I wish they had named him Fluffy,” was all he said.

Chapter 2 - Music in the Night

I feel at this time there are a few things you should know about Chester. He is not your ordinary cat. (But then, I’m not your ordinary dog, since an ordinary dog wouldn’t be writing this book, would he?)

Chester came into the house several years ago as a birthday gift for Mr. Monroe, along with two volumes of G. K. Chesterton (hence the name, Chester) and a first edition of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities . As a result of this introduction to literature, and given the fact that Mr. Monroe is an English professor, Chester developed a taste of reading early in life. (I, on the other hand, have developed a taste for books. I found Jonathan Livingston Seagull particularly delicious.) From Chester’s kittenhood on, Mr. Monroe has used him as a sounding board for all his student lectures. If Chester doesn’t fall asleep when Mr. Monroe is talking, the lecture can be counted a success.

Every night when the family is sleeping, Chester goes to the bookshelf, selects his midnight reading, and curls up on his favorite chair. He especially likes mystery stories and tales of horror and the supernatural. As a result, he has developed a very vivid imagination.

I’m telling you this because I think it’s important for you to know something of Chester’s background before I relate to you the story of the events following the arrival of Bunnicula into our home. Let me begin with that first night.

It seems that after I went to sleep, Chester, still stewing over the lost milk, settled down with his latest book and attempted to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The room was dark and quiet. This did not prevent his reading, of course, since as you know, cats can see in the dark. A shaft of moonlight fell across the rabbit’s cage and spilled onto the floor below. The wind and rain had stopped and, as Chester read Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher,” he became increasingly aware of the eerie stillness that had taken their place. As Chester tells it, he suddenly felt compelled to look at the rabbit.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he said to me the next morning, “but a cold chill ran down my spine.”

The little bunny had begun to move for the first time since he had been put in his cage. He lifted his tiny nose and inhaled deeply, as if gathering sustenance from the moonlight.

“He slicked his ears back close to his body, and for the first time,” Chester said, “I noticed the peculiar marking on his forehead. What had seemed an ordinary black spot between his ears took on a strange v-shape, which connected with the big black patch that covered his back and each side of his neck. It looked as if he was wearing a coat … no, more like a cape than a coat.”

Through the silence had drifted the strains of a remote and exotic music.

“I could have sworn it was a gypsy violin,” Chester told me. “I thought perhaps a caravan was passing by, so I ran to the window.”

I remembered my mother telling me something about caravans when I was a puppy. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what.

“What’s a caravan?” I asked, feeling a little stupid.

“A caravan is a band of gypsies traveling through the forest in their wagons,” Chester answered.

“Ah, yes.” It was coming back to me now. “Station wagons?”

“No, covered wagons! The gypsies travel all through the land, setting up camps around great bonfires, doing magical tricks, and sometimes, if you cross their palms with a piece of silver, they’ll tell your fortune.”

“You mean if I gave them a fork, they’d tell my fortune?” I asked, breathlessly.

Chester looked at me with disdain. “Save your silverware,” he said. “It wasn’t a caravan after all.”

I was disappointed. “What was it?” I asked.

Chester explained that when he looked out the window, he saw Professor Mickelwhite, our next door neighbor, playing the violin in his living room. He listened for a few moments to the haunting melody and sighed with relief. I’ve really got to stop reading these horror stories late at night, he thought. It’s beginning to affect my mind. He yawned and turned to go back to his chair and get some sleep. As he turned, however, he was startled by what he saw.