Bunnicula Meets Edgar Allan Crow

“It’s Bunnicula,” said Pete. “He’s turned vegetables white before, like I told you in my letter. But I sure never saw him turn a pumpkin white! That’s—”

“Astonishing,” Miles repeated, licking his lips. His eyes glowed. His face had more color.

Edgar flew to him, landing on his shoulder.

“Did you bring me here to see this?” Miles asked.

Edgar nipped his ear.

“Astonishing,” Miles said for the third time in a matter of minutes.

Now it so happens that there is such a thing as a white pumpkin. I know this because I saw it on public television. Chester isn’t the only one who learns a thing or two now and again, although I confess that technically this wasn’t research on my part. This was Mr. Monroe sitting down to watch a program and my refusing to get off the couch.

In any event, it was quite clear—as Mr. Monroe was now explaining to Miles—that this was not the kind of pumpkin that was meant to be white. For one thing, all the other pumpkins around it were orange. For another, this one wasn’t entirely white. If you looked carefully, you could see a hint of orange. And finally, there were two tiny marks on it, marks that would be easy to miss if you didn’t live in a house with a rabbit who was fond of getting his nutrients by sinking his fangs into vegetables and draining them of their juices.

When Miles bent down to look at the marks, he said, “Astonishing.”

He is a man of few words. Or in this case: one word.

We had become so distracted by all this talk about pumpkins, however, that we had forgotten about the culprit who had turned this one white.

“There he goes!” Pete called out. “We’ve got to catch him!”

There he was indeed, and off we went in pursuit of our runaway bunny. Edgar was in the lead, of course, but with his long legs Miles came in a close second.

As we were running home, it began to grow light.

“Bunnicula must sleep soon,” Chester said, panting alongside me.

“I can’t take this kind of workout first thing in the morning,” I complained. “It’s too early, my joints ache, I’m old, and I’m lazy. And what do you mean, Bunnicula must sleep soon?”

“He’s a vampire, Uncle Harold,” Howie piped up. “He can’t let the sun’s rays touch him or . . . oh, it’s too terrible to say!”

“He’s ... rounding the corner of your ... house!” we heard Miles cry out just before he himself rounded the same corner.

By the time we caught up with him, Miles was shaking his head. “We lost him,” he said. “I’m . . . sorry.”

“He can’t be far,” said Mr. Monroe. “He always goes to sleep just before daylight. Odd habit, that. I’ve never understood it. But at least we don’t have to worry about him for now. Let’s go in and have breakfast. We’ll search for him again later.”

“Promise?” Toby asked plaintively.

“Of course, son,” said Mr. Monroe. “I’m sure he’s sleeping soundly under a bush or under the house. We’ll find him.”

Needless to say, Chester had his own thoughts on the subject.

“I don’t think it’s any mystery where Bunnicula is,” Chester told Howie and me when we were out on the front porch for a post-breakfast bath and nap. I’m pleased to report that I scored two strips of bacon, a mere one hundred and twelve shy of what I feel certain I could digest without tummy troubles. “Clearly it’s all a pretense, an act, a charade, a sham ...”

“Chester” I yawned, “have you been at the thesaurus again? We get your point. Sort of. Well, actually, not at all.”

“Fine. Then try to stay awake, Harold, and I’ll explain. Obviously, Miles and Edgar—partners in crime—have Bunnicula stashed away in their room.”

“How is that obvious?” I asked. “We saw Bunnicula on the loose.”

“We did indeed, Harold. We saw him on the loose until we didn’t see him anymore. And when did we stop seeing him?”

“This is impossible to follow,” I said. “Could you make the questions multiple choice?”

Chester ignored me and went on. “We stopped seeing him after Miles and Edgar went around the corner of the house. I feel certain that he’s in the guest room in that black bag, undoubtedly in an especially deep sleep because of all the vegetable juices he’s imbibed.”

“But Pop,” said Howie, “what about the pumpkin and the vegetables in the kitchen?”

“And seeing him before we stopped seeing him,” I put in.

“Oh, he got out. They were counting on that. But then Miles caught him, don’t you understand? He caught him, and hid him under his cape, and took him back up to his room.”

“But why? Why would they do it?” My head was starting to hurt.

“They have plans for him, Harold. They wanted to see if he was as unusual as Pete’s letter made him out to be. That’s why Miles asked for undressed salad to be available at all times and for Bunnicula to be placed in his room.”

Howie began giggling.

“What is so funny?” Chester asked.

“Undressed salad,” Howie said, and the giggling got louder.

Chester heaved a sigh, shook his head, and continued. “Bunnicula, enticed by the lettuce on the night table, got out of his cage, drained the greens, and then—his unnatural appetite whetted—slipped out the door to go down to the kitchen and from there to the garden down the street. Edgar followed him—undoubtedly with the help of the head crow and the gang of varmints in the backyard—and then returned to wait for Miles. And now they have him in that black bag, right where they want him, and what they’re going to do with him is anybody’s guess. But I’ll tell you this: Whatever else is in that bag—it’s not meant for anything good.”

It all sounded a little crazy, but then I thought back to everything that had happened. And I began to wonder: Were we really harboring a madman—and a no-good crow—under our roof? Was Bunnicula in danger of being transformed into some kind of steel-plated monster? And would I ever have a conversation with Chester that didn’t end up giving me a headache?

It was too much to think about. I did the only thing a dog could do under the circumstances. I closed my eyes and fell fast asleep.