I looked past the crowd, past Mrs. Monroe and Chester, and saw that, sure enough, Mr. Monroe was in the process of being drowned. There he sat, on a little seat above a pool of water when suddenly … the seat gave way and … splash! … down he went!
“I’ll save you!” I barked. I dashed off the platform and through the crowd and without thinking of what I was doing (heroic type that I am) jumped into the pool of water. Boy, was it cold!
Even my teeth were shivering as I grabbed Mr. Monroe by his shirt collar and pulled him to the side. For some reason, he was laughing. Hysterical, I thought, the poor man’s gone over the edge. But, no, he seemed to be laughing at me.
“It’s all right, Harold,” I heard him say, “no one is trying to hurt me. It’s a game, just a game.”
Huh? Now I was really confused. What was going on here anyway?
I looked up to see other people laughing as well. Were they laughing at me? Mrs. Monroe came through the crowd as Mr. Monroe and I departed the pool. Someone handed Mr. Monroe a towel. I shook the water off as best I could, to the squeals of surprise of several bystanders. Mrs. Monroe didn’t appear to be as amused as the other people.
“What in the world’s come over them?” she asked.
Toby and Pete pushed their way through. Toby was carrying a bedraggled-looking Howie under his arm. Chester was suspended by the scruff of his neck from the hand of the irate Pete.
“They’ve ruined everything!” Pete cried.
Ruined? I thought. We saved the day!
Didn’t we?
“Yeah, Mom,” Toby whined. “Look what they did to our play!”
Play?
I turned my head and saw for the first time the sign hanging atop the platform.
“Curse of the Vampires!” it read. “A Play by Toby and Peter Monroe. 1:00 Today!”
I turned and glared at Chester. As best he could in his awkward position, he shrugged.
“Yeah,” Pete went on, “I think they’ve gone crazy or something. We were up at Kyle’s house, practicing our parts, when all of a sudden, the three of them jumped out from behind this bush and took off down the street.”
“We called to them and everything, but they wouldn’t come.”
“We chased after them, but the closer we got, the faster they went.”
“Until they got to school here, and … well, you see what they did. They knocked over the set and the walls and …”
School?
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Monroe said, knocking water out of his ear, “we’ll get the stage set up again in no time, and the play will go on as scheduled.”
Mrs. Monroe turned to a woman standing next to her and said apologetically, “I’m sorry about your carrot cake. I’m sure it would have won first prize in the bake-off. It was so clever of you to bake it in the shape of a carrot and put that scrumptuous-looking cream-cheese frosting on it. I don’t know what got into Chester.”
“I don’t know what got into Chester, Mom,” said Pete, “but he sure got into that carrot cake.” A chuckle ran through the crowd.
“And Harold’s acting weird, too,” Toby said.
“Well,” said Mr. Monroe, “I can guess what happened with our friend Harold. He must’ve thought I was drowning and tried to save me. You can’t expect a dog to understand things like a Dunk-the-Teacher booth at a school carnival.”
Dunk-the-Teacher booth? Carnival? I thought. What’s a carnival? I looked around me at the brightly colored streamers that festooned the school playground, the booths, the balloons, the clown who was at that moment walking by. So this is where everybody was headed! Zombies, indeed.
“I’d say you have four unusual pets,” said a man in the crowd, tapping Mrs. Monroe on the shoulder. Mrs. Monroe just shook her head and sighed.
“Yes,” someone else said, “maybe you should have entered them all in the pet contest.”
Chester jumped down from Pete’s arms and ran over to me. “That reminds me,” he said, “we’ve got to find Bunnicula before he—”
Howie cut him off with a sharp yip. “Look,” he cried, squirming out of Toby’s armhold and jumping to the ground. “Over there on that table!”
We looked up and saw a cage made to look like a castle. “Castle Bunnicula” read a sign atop it. On the front was a big blue ribbon that proclaimed “First Prize—Most Unusual Pet in Centerville.” And inside was none other than our long-lost furry friend … Bunnicula!
We scurried over to the rabbit’s cage and peered in. He was sleeping soundly … the sleep, as they say, of the innocent.
“So that’s where he’s been,” Howie whispered.
I glared at Chester. “Somebody goofed,” I said. “If you don’t deserve that prize, nobody does.”
Chester yawned. Then he smiled weakly at Howie and me. “Well, boys,” he said, “it’s been quite a day, hasn’t it?”
I was about to place my paws around his neck when Mrs. Monroe came up behind us.
“Phew, do you fellas smell!” she said. “Where have you been?”
It’s a long story, I thought.
She called across the school playground to Mr. Monroe, who was on the platform helping some other people put the stage set back together.
“Robert!” she said, “I’m going to take these guys home and give them a quick bath. They smell as if they’ve been to the town dump. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Hurry, Mom,” Toby shouted. “I don’t want you to miss the play.”
We walked single-file behind Mrs. Monroe, our heads hanging, our tails drooping, all the way home.
“Well, Chester,” I mumbled, “now that we’ve made total fools of ourselves, what do you have to say?”
“A slight misinterpretation of the facts,” he replied. “Everyone’s entitled to one slight misinterpretation of the facts in the course of a lifetime.”
Suddenly, Howie said, “Psst, Uncle Harold, don’t look now, but you’re being watched.”
I looked up and saw a large white cat hanging over the front porch railing of his home, his beady eyes following my every step. He hissed. I gulped.
“Remember me?” he said as I passed.
“Uh … well … uh …”
“Don’t worry, buster,” he went on, his eyes narrowing to slits. “You will remember me. One of these days, I’ll give you something to remember me by.”
I gulped again, wondering what it would be like never to leave home again.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Harold,” Howie said, apparently overhearing my throat muscles contract, “Snowball may or may not be serious in threatening you. After all, he could be just kitten.”
I resisted the temptation to bounce Howie the rest of the way home.
“Ha ha ha,” Howie chortled. “Get it, Uncle Harold? Just kitten! That’s a cat joke. Wait’ll I tell Pop. I’ll knock him dead.”
Or vice versa, I thought.
I sighed as I mulled over the possibilities fate held in store for me: captive forever in a house with wise-cracking Howie and adventure-loving Chester, with squabbling Toby and Pete and a television set that’s possessed, or free in the world where Snowball was waiting to rearrange my body hair. How complicated life had become for a dog who wanted only the simple pleasures: peace and quiet and the occasional cream-filled chocolate cupcake.
I appreciated anew the old expression: it’s a dog’s life!
Chapter 8
Home Is Where
the Heart Is
THAT EVENING, bathed, fed and refreshed, I felt life returning to a semblance of normalcy. I was curled up on the rug contentedly chewing a recent copy of Architectural Digest, while nearby Howie and Chester were trying to help Toby and Pete solve a Rubik’s Cube. Howie’s idea of helping was to grab it with his teeth and race to the other side of the room before the boys could get it away from him. Time after time they succeeded in retrieving it, however, until he finally tired of the game and began playing tug-of-war with Mr. Monroe’s slipper. Unfortunately, Mr. Monroe’s foot was still in residence in his slipper, so that didn’t last long either. Bunnicula sat in his cage, staring out at the rest of us and twitching his nose, which I guess is a rabbit’s way of having fun. Or at least passing the time. His First Prize ribbon adorned his regular cage; Castle Bunnicula, I gathered, having been relegated to the garage or one of the boy’s bedrooms.