The machine clicked off.
“Mr. Monroe didn’t sound like Bunnicula would be fine,” Howie said.
“No, he didn’t,” I agreed.
Chester said nothing, and the three of us fell into an uneasy silence. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. The space by the window where Bunnicula’s cage had been sitting only that morning was empty, save for the fine layer of dust that held a few white and black hairs. I sniffed at them, sneezed from the dust, then felt my eyes grow wet with the thought that these few hairs were all that remained of Bunnicula. I’d never even said good-bye.
I turned. Chester was staring intently at the empty space.
“Plan C,” he said, and then fell silent again.
Chapter 7
Plant, See?
I DIDN’T see Chester for most of the rest of the day. I assumed he was keeping himself busy with Plan C, whatever that was, but since Bunnicula was now safely out of the house, I didn’t worry about it much. Surely Dr. Greenbriar would find out what was wrong with him. And there would be no crazed cat around to suck down his vegetable juices while he slept, so at the very least Bunnicula would be able to eat properly again.
By the time the boys came home, I had begun to wonder where Chester was, however. On Mondays, Toby and Pete get home about a half hour before their father arrives from the university where he teaches. Howie and I always rush to the door to greet them and Toby always says, “Hi, guys, I’ll bet you’re hungry!”
Does he know dogs or what?
Now Chester may harp at me and Howie about our thinking with our stomachs, but it’s a known fact that cats are every bit as meal-minded as dogs. It’s just that dogs are more obvious about it. You take one look in our eyes and you know what we’re thinking.
Feed me.
Pet me.
Love me.
Even if I did turn your new catcher’s mitt into an unrecognizable glob of leather and dog slobber, I’m still your best buddy, right?
Cats, on the other hand, like to keep you guessing. They’ll rub back and forth against your legs (I’ve observed that Chester likes to do this most when the Monroes are wearing black pants), meowing like crazy until you finally get the message, and then they start doing this little dance that you think is saying, “Yes, yes, that’s it! Food! That’s what I want! Give me food!” You bend down to put the bowl on the floor, and they practically knock you over trying to get at it. And then what happens? One sniff and they walk out of the kitchen with their tails in the air, as if to say, “Is that what you thought I wanted? You must be joking!”
I’m sure you have observed, however, that when you return to the kitchen fifteen minutes later, the bowl is empty. I’ll let you in on a little secret: When it comes to food, cats are the same as dogs. They just don’t let you see it.
In any event, normally when Toby and Pete get home from school, Chester comes out from wherever he’s been hiding to rub up against Toby’s legs and go into his little feed-me dance. This time, however, he was nowhere to be seen.
Once Howie and I had finished our afternoon snack with Toby and Pete, we set off in search of Chester.
We sniffed out his usual hiding places—under Toby’s bed, on top of the computer in the den, in the laundry basket. All to no avail.
Howie even nosed Chester’s favorite catnip mouse under several pieces of furniture where we wouldn’t be able to fit but Chester might. Nothing.
As we trotted down the stairs after our second search of all the bedrooms, Howie said, “Gee, Uncle Harold, maybe Pop went out the pet door while we were sleeping. Maybe he’s gone after Bunnicula.”
“I’ve already considered that,” I told Howie. “The only problem is that there would be no way for him to get into the vet’s office once he got there. No, I don’t think that’s what he—”
It was then that I heard it. Mewing. Pitiful mewing. It was coming from inside the front hall closet.
Moving quickly, I nudged the door open with my nose. There, atop a jumble of winter boots and fallen jackets, lay Chester. He looked worse than he sounded.
“Chester!” I cried out. “What’s wrong?”
He responded with a deep-throated cowlike moan.
Alarmed, Howie and I went into a frenzy of barking.
Ordinarily, Chester might have told us to put a lid on it, but I noticed he wasn’t complaining. I also noticed that he looked a lot like Bunnicula had been looking lately—glassy-eyed, lethargic. Maybe Mr. Monroe had been right. Maybe Bunnicula had a virus of some kind. Maybe Chester had it now. Maybe Howie and I were next!
Just as Toby and Pete came running in from the kitchen, the front door swung open and in walked Mr. Monroe.
“What’s going on?” he asked, dropping his briefcase to the floor.
“I don’t know,” Pete told his father. “The dogs started barking like crazy and we just got here and—”
“Look!” Toby grabbed his father’s arm and pulled him toward the closet. Howie and I stopped barking as Chester, who now had all eyes upon him, filled the void with a mewling that sent chills down my spine.
“Pete, get Chester’s carrier from the garage!” Mr. Monroe commanded. “We’ve got to get him to the doctor right away! And while we’re at it …”
I started to slink away, but made it no farther than the bottom of the stairs before Toby had me by the collar.
“… let’s take Harold and Howie in, too, and have them checked.”
I’ll spare you the details of my trip to the vet. Suffice it to say it involved a lot of panting, drooling, shaking, and shedding. Fortunately, the vet knows enough to recognize normal canine behavior when he sees it, so Howie and I each received a clean bill of health and were sent home. Chester wasn’t so lucky.
Of course, as I would learn later, luck had nothing to do with it. Chester was sick, all right, and he was going to have to spend the night at the vet’s, but that was exactly what he wanted.
“Plant, see?” said Howie, calling out to me from inside the hall closet later that day. He had crawled in there to be close to Chester’s scent and had quickly made an important discovery.
You’ve heard the expression “Take time to stop and smell the roses?” Well, for cats, it’s “Take time to stop and eat the houseplants.” So the fact that Chester had eaten Pete and Toby’s Mother’s Day gift to Mrs. Monroe was not altogether shocking—although he did usually exercise a little more restraint. What was surprising was the fact that he’d hidden the plant’s remains in the back of the hall closet. And when I say remains, I’m talking about a few stems.
Why had he done it? It didn’t take me long to figure it out.
“Plan C,” I said to Howie.
“That’s what I said. Plant, see?”
“No, Howie, this was Chester’s Plan C. Making himself sick was his way of getting inside the animal hospital. He’s gone after Bunnicula!”
“What does this mean?” Howie asked.
“It means,” I said, aware that I was about to sound remarkably like Chester, “that we have a job to do, Howie.”
“Oh, goody,” Howie said. “Is it washing the dishes? I love that job. Although the last time I licked all the plates clean, Mrs. Monroe came into the kitchen and got all upset as if I’d left some food on them or something. Which I happen to know for a fact I did not. So this time—”
“Howie!” I snapped. Now I really felt like Chester. “Not that kind of job. A mission, a duty! We have to catch up with Chester before it’s too late!”
“Then let’s go!” Howie yipped enthusiastically. “We can wash the dishes later!”