Bunnicula Strikes Again! by James Howe

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 secondsearch 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œChester!” 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 Chesterhad 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.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” he asked, dropping his brief-case to the floor.
    â€œI don’t know,” Pete told his father. “The dogs started barking like crazy and we just got here and—”
    â€œLook!” 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.
    â€œPete, 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.
    â€œ. . . 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.
    â€œPlant, 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 andhad quickly made an important discovery.
    You’ve heard the expression “Take time to stop and smell the roses?” Well, for cats, it’s