Howliday Inn
James Howe
Editor’s Note
The Departure
Welcome to Howliday Inn
An Uneasy Calm
The Storm Gathers
“She’s Gone!”
The Cat Who Knew Too Much
Good Night, Sweet Chester
Harold X, Private Eye
And Then There Were Three
Mystery, Mayhem and Mud
In the Days That Followed
Howie
Epilogue
Front Flap
Rear Flap
Publication Info
Version Info
In memory of
Debbie
Editor’s Note
I HAD THOUGHT I’d heard the last of Harold, the writing dog, when he delivered his book, Bunnicula, to my office some time ago. Much to my surprise, he suddenly appeared again one recent rainy Wednesday afternoon. The dreary weather had made the day useless for anything more than catching up on all those boring little chores one puts off for just such days and drinking a lot of reheated coffee to cut the constant chill that sneaks in through the cracks in the windows. When I heard scratching at my door, I thought it was probably a stray cat looking for a warm radiator and a saucer of milk. That alone, I reasoned, would provide some relief from the monotony of the day’s non-events.
You can well imagine my delight when I opened the door and saw Harold standing on the other side of the portal, his hair drenched and hanging from him like an unwrung mop. From his teeth dangled a plastic bag. I asked him in and examined the contents of the bag that he’d dropped at my feet. What I found was the manuscript of Harold’s new book, together with this note:
My dear colleague,
I had not planned to write again. Indeed, after my
friend Chester read my first book, he accused me
of writing without a literary license. I had settled
into my comfortable life as a nice American middle-
class dog with my nice American middle-class
family when strange events once again engulfed
me. Naturally, after all the fur had flown and the
dust had settled, I felt compelled to write the story
down.
What resulted is the manuscript you now see
before you. I do hope you will enjoy it and, as
before, find it worthy of your readers’ attentions.
Your humble servant,
Harold X.
I convinced Harold to stay long enough for a doughnut and a bowl of hot chocolate. Then, as suddenly as he’d appeared, he was gone, leaving behind him the pages of his story, which he has chosen to call Howliday Inn.
Chapter 1 - The Departure
LOOKING back on it now, I doubt that there was any way I could have imagined what lay ahead. After all, I’m not as well read as Chester, and except for the time I’d run away from home as a puppy and spent a fitful night under a neighbor’s Porsche, I really had had very little experience of my own in the outside world. How could I have begun to imagine then what would befall me that fateful week in August?
If the memories of that week no longer make my blood run cold, they still have enough of a chilling effect to give me pause. Why, you may wonder, do I wish to stir them up now when I could so easily curl up in front of a nice warm radiator and think of happier times instead? The answer, a simple one really, is just this: whatever else may be said of that week, it was an adventure. And adventures, no matter how dark or disturbing to recall, are meant to be shared.
IT BEGAN innocently enough on a beautiful summer’s day, the kind of day, I remember thinking, when the universe seems in perfect order and nothing can go wrong. A soft breeze ruffled the hairs along my neck. Birds chirped happily in the trees. A butterfly landed on my nose and would have stayed for a while, I think, if I hadn’t sneezed him off. The sky was blue, the sun was gold, the grass was green. Such riches cannot be bought for any price, I thought, as I lay stretched out on the front lawn chewing contentedly on one of Mr. Monroe’s new running shoes.
Without warning, my blissful mood was shattered by the sound of Toby’s voice coming from within the house.
“Why?” he kept repeating, a bit unpleasantly.
His mother answered him in that ever-patient way of hers. “You’ve asked me several times, Toby, and I keep telling you the same thing. I know you’re not happy about it, but we can’t take them with us.”
“But why? Why?” Toby insisted loudly. I noticed several butterflies flutter away from our yard defensively. “We’ve taken Harold and Chester on vacation with us before,” he whined. My ears perked up. I was the topic of discussion.
“Just to the lake house, Toby, never on a car trip,” Mrs. Monroe answered. “There won’t be room. Besides, you know Harold gets carsick. You wouldn’t want him to be miserable, would you?”
“No,” Toby agreed sensibly, “I guess you’re right.”
Darn right she is, I thought.
“But I’m going to miss them, Mom,” Toby added.
Mrs. Monroe’s voice softened. “I know you are, Toby. We’ll all miss them. But we’ll be gone only a week, and then we’ll see them again. Think of everything you’ll have to tell Harold when you get home.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Toby said, his voice trailing off in defeat. Poor kid, I thought, he’s really broken up. Well, I couldn’t blame him. I was a lot of fun, after all, and it was natural he’d want to take me along. I mean, who would he play fetch-the-stick with? Whose tummy would he rub?
Suddenly, panic seized me. Who was going to feed us? I dropped my Adidas, moved quickly to the front door and began scratching on the screen.
“Hi, Harold,” Toby said as he let me in. He looked at me sadly and put his arms around my neck. “I’m sorry, boy. Mom says we can’t take you on vacation this time. I’ll bet you feel real disappointed, huh?”
Who’s going to feed me? I asked with my eyes.
“But don’t worry. We’ll be back in a week. It won’t be so long. Still, you feel bad you’re not going, don’t you? I know.”
Who’s going to feed me? I pleaded, with a hint of a whimper.
“Oh, and if you’re wondering what’s going to happen to you while we’re away …”
Yes? I asked, my eyes growing wider.
“… don’t worry. Mom and Dad have that all figured out. See, Bunnicula is going to stay next door at Professor Mickelwhite’s house …” I glanced over at the windowsill where the rabbit’s cage was kept and saw that it had already been removed. I felt myself breaking into a cold sweat. What was going to happen to me? “… and you and Chester are going to be boarded.”
Oh, I thought, feeling relieved immediately, that’s all right then. Just one little detail troubled me: I didn’t have the slightest idea what being boarded meant. I decided to find Chester and ask him about it, since Chester knows, or thinks he knows, something about almost everything.
When I found him, he was sitting in the back yard staring off into space. Chester, being a cat, is very good at staring off into space. He once explained to me that this was his way of meditating or, as he liked to put it, “getting mellow.” At the moment I found him, he looked so mellow I thought there was a good chance of his ripening and rotting right there before my eyes if I didn’t shake him out of it quickly.