Chester’s face took on an odd expression. “Let’s just say the matter is under control, Harold. At last.”
“But, Chester,” I said, “Bunnicula hasn’t attacked any vegetables since he escaped that time. Surely you’re no longer worried about him.”
“Oh, I’m no longer worried about him. No, I’m not worried at all.”
And with that, he jumped up on the brown velvet armchair, bid us good night, and, after circling and pawing at the seat cushion for a good five minutes, proceeded to fall into a deep and seemingly untroubled sleep.
Howie and I meandered over to Bunnicula’s cage.
“What do you think Pop meant about everything being under control?” Howie asked as we regarded our lethargic chum.
“Chester just likes to hear himself talk sometimes,” I told Howie. “And he likes to believe that Bunnicula is a threat. But I don’t think he’d do him any real harm. After all, he’s one of the family.”
Howie smiled. “My brother, the bunny,” he said. “Hey, that reminds me, Uncle Harold. Did you read FleshCrawlers number thirty-three, My Sister the Pickled Brain? It is so cool. See, there’s this girl named Laura-Lynn O’Flynn who has this twin sister, and one day she asks her to help her with this science experiment and something goes way wrong and the next thing you know …”
As Howie nattered on, I thought about what I’d said to him. Although I was pleased to find life carrying on as usual in the Monroe household, I was troubled that something might once again be fanning the spark of Chester’s suspicions and animosity toward an innocent rabbit—one we called a friend. Did I really believe Chester would do Bunnicula no harm? After all, he had tried to destroy Bunnicula once. How far would he have gone? How far would he go now? I had no answers and I did not like where the questions were taking me.
It was only later that night when I was fast asleep that the pieces came together as they do in dreams—the lifeless look in Bunnicula’s eyes, Chester’s mysterious comments, and the disturbing scene from the story Toby had read to me earlier. Was it one thing in particular, or was it all of the pieces floating dreamlike through my slumber, that put the questions into my mind that would not go away: Might Chester and Bunnicula be headed for their own fateful plunge from the precipice? Could this be the end of Bunnicula?
Chapter 2
The Terrible Truth About Chester
IF Saturdays at your house are anything like Saturdays at our house, let me offer you a little advice: Do not fall asleep at the bottom of the stairs. After all my Saturdays with the Monroes, you would think I would have known better. But now that I’m well into my middle years, I take the position that if you can’t live recklessly on occasion, what’s the point of it all? Unfortunately, sometimes the point of it all is that you get trampled.
As was the case on the Saturday morning in question. I had little time to think of the dreams that had disturbed my sleep the night before when I was startled awake by the sound of Pete and Toby yelling at each other. The accompanying rumble told me a stampede was in progress, and, sure enough, when I looked up and saw the Monroe brothers scrambling down the stairs, there were Pete’s bare and dirty feet heading straight for me. As far as I could tell, this morning’s altercation had something to do with a large piece of cardboard Pete was waving around over his head, which Toby was trying to get from him.
For the record, I do not move quickly in the morning.
For the record, Pete and Toby do.
It was no contest.
Oomph!
“Watch it, Harold!” Pete shouted as he landed on a part of me that was blessedly not fully awake yet.
“You could say you’re sorry!” Toby yelled at his brother, stopping to pat me on the head.
“I just did!” Pete shot back. Apparently, Toby had forgotten that “Watch it!” is Pete’s idea of an apology.
Chester wandered in as Pete and Toby continued their morning exercises.
“Give me that poster!” Toby shouted. “I made it!”
Pete waved the poster at Toby. Toby grabbed at it and missed. Pete called his brother a word of one syllable. Toby volleyed with a compound noun. Pete retorted with a backhanded insult. Toby lobbed a high string of colorful adjectives capped by a perfectly executed oxymoron.
“Boys!” Mrs. Monroe shouted from the top of the stairs. “Enough!”
“Breakfast!” Mr. Monroe called cheerfully and obliviously from the kitchen.
“And the match goes to Toby,” Chester commented as he licked a curled paw. “Nice wordplay.”
“People are fascinating, aren’t they, Chester?” I asked as we followed the boys and the enticing aroma of bacon into the kitchen. “All those words and they actually imagine they’re communicating.”
“I swear,” said Chester, “if you waved a sign in their faces that said feed me before i faint, they’d ask if you needed to go outside. Speaking of signs, what did the poster say?”
“Speaking of feed-me-before-I-faint,” I replied, “who cares what the poster said?”
In the kitchen, I joined Howie at Mr. Monroe’s side to pant and whimper and look as pathetic as possible while Mr. Monroe forked bacon onto a plate.
“Subtlety, thy name is dog,” Chester observed sarcastically.
I chose not to engage in what I knew would be yet another futile round in one of our oldest debates—Getting the Food from Their Hand to Your Mouth: Shameless Begging versus Haughty Disdain. Besides, now that I was feeling a little more awake (helped by the strip of bacon Mr. Monroe slipped me on the sly; one point for shameless begging), my dreams started coming back to me. Questions were forming themselves in my mind, questions I needed to ask Chester as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
“No more, Harold,” I heard Mr. Monroe say. I was unaware that he had seated himself at the table, and I had moved from whimpering at his side to laying my head on his lap and looking up at him plaintively. It’s amazing the things that happen on automatic.
“If you want more breakfast,” he said, scratching the top of my head, “go look in your bowl. There’s a surprise waiting for you.”
Before you could say, “For me?” I was at my bowl, where I found freshly ground meat! One thing I have to say about the Monroes, their lives may get busy, but they always think of their pets in special little ways. I’ve always said I have the best family anyone could have. Even if I do get stomped on by a certain person’s dirty, smelly feet occasionally.
“We won’t be home until late,” I heard Mrs. Monroe saying. “Toby, will you be sure to leave Bunnicula’s carrot juice for him so he’ll have it when he wakes up?”
“Okay,” said Toby, chewing. Then, “Bunnicula hasn’t been looking so good, Mom. Do you think there’s something wrong with him?”
“Now that you mention it,” said Mrs. Monroe, “there has been a real change in his energy lately. Maybe we should take him to the vet.”
“He’s just fat and lazy,” said Pete.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Toby said.
“Boys,” Mr. Monroe murmured in that way he has of letting you know you’re about to sail into treacherous waters and you’d better change course.
For a moment everyone fell silent. Then Mr. Monroe said, “He doesn’t seem seriously ill. Maybe we’ll take him to the vet on Monday. I don’t see how we can fit it in today. We’ve got so much to do, what with the rally at the movie house and all.”
“Like this dumb rally is going to make a difference,” said Pete. “I don’t see why we’re wasting our time. They’re going to tear the theater down on Tuesday whether we protest or not. It’s a lost cause.”
“Your mother and I have put months into fighting this demolition, Pete, you know that. That theater is not only very convenient, it’s architecturally important and is a local landmark of sorts. We’re not going to stop now. Decisions can still be overturned.”