Twenty-five years?
Impossible.
Harold hasn’t grown any older. How is it that I have?
Oh, that’s right, I’m not a fictional character. Just my luck. Sometimes I feel as if I were inside a story, though—one I could never have imagined, a story with thousands of characters, unexpected plot twists, and no end in sight. That’s the best part: It’s a story that’s still being written.
It started with only a handful of characters. Two, to be exact. One night in 1977, two underemployed actors, a husband and wife who didn’t know the first thing about writing a children’s book, sat down at their tomato-red kitchen table and jotted some notes about a vampire rabbit and the “typical American family” with whom he came to reside. There were a brother and sister, their parents, a cat named Chester, and, of course, “Count Bunnicula,” the mysterious rabbit. By the next day, the brother and sister had become two brothers, and another pet had been added to the family—Harold, a dog.
Bunnicula—A Rabbit-Tale of Mystery by Deborah and James Howe was published in April 1979. Debbie, who had been diagnosed with cancer several months into the writing of the book, did not live to see it in print. She died in June 1978, at the age of thirty-one. Getting on with my life as best I could, I continued with my day job as an assistant to a literary agent while going to school in the evenings to earn a master’s degree in theater directing. I had lost interest in an acting career and gave little thought to the book Debbie and I had written just for fun or the impact its publication might have—although, truth be told, the day I first held the published book in my hands was one of the most thrilling of my life.
The impact, however, occurred gradually. One day I found an envelope in my mailbox with my name and address written in pencil in a childlike hand. What in the world can this be? I asked myself as I tore it open and withdrew the letter from inside. No wonder the handwriting had been childlike—the letter was from a child. It had never occurred to me that I would get actual letters from actual readers!
And then there was my first invitation to speak in a school. When the day came, I wore a three-piece suit—that’s how important I thought it was. When Bunnicula won its first children’s choice award—Nebraska’s Golden Sower Award—I scribbled my acceptance speech on a scrap of paper while on the plane to Lincoln, Nebraska, only to be informed when I arrived that I was the morning program—three hours’ worth!—for an audience of librarians and teachers. It was that morning that I discovered I could think—and talk—on my feet!
But I was discovering something else as well. Not only was Bunnicula becoming a popular book, it was taking on a life of its own—and that life was turning my life into the story with thousands of characters and unexpected plot twists. The large cast of characters included readers and parents, teachers and librarians, fellow authors and illustrators, and a vast array of publishing people—all of whom were absolutely devoted to something called “children’s literature.” I was becoming part of a world I hadn’t even known existed a few short years ago.
In 1981 I left my job with the literary agency where I had worked for seven years, gave up my aspirations of becoming a theater director, and did what my mother had always said I should do. I became a writer. That year, I completed Howliday Inn, the first of five sequels to Bunnicula. That was also the year, I believe, that I was invited to be on a local TV children’s talk show in Baltimore, Maryland. I was on for all of two minutes at the end of the program, and the first question I was asked (by a twelve-year-old girl) was, “Why did you put all those hard words in your book?”
Hard words? I had no idea I had put hard words in Bunnicula. I don’t remember what I answered, beyond, “Uh, um, er …,” but I have often thought of that moment because it made me grateful that Debbie and I had not really known what we were doing when we wrote the book. We had no idea what kinds of books children were reading or how we might gear the vocabulary or sentence structure or humor to someone younger than ourselves. We wrote a book that made us laugh, that entertained us first and foremost.
And that is a key to the book’s success, I think, because in writing something that truly made us laugh, we were able to make others laugh as well. Through the years, I have often been told that Bunnicula has opened the door to reading for many children—even with all those hard words. What an unexpected plot twist that was!
There have been many other plot twists to Bunnicula—awards; translations into foreign languages; two audiotape versions; play adaptations that have been staged all across the country; an animated TV special back in the 1980s; the hope of a movie even now (my fingers are crossed as I type this, which, let me tell you, is no mean feat!); picture books, chapter books, activity books, a joke book, and a pop-up book; a series featuring Howie the dachshund puppy (one of my favorite characters to write, Howie showed up unexpectedly at the end of Howliday Inn and has been an important part of the books ever since); letters and letters and more letters from readers; and, now, a whole new generation of readers. But the best plot twist of all is still the fact that this book has opened the door for so many young people to enter the world of reading.
Bunnicula opened the door wide for me as well—to a life of writing and a world of characters—both real and fictional—that I could never have imagined sitting at that tomato-red kitchen table so long ago.
Despite the difference in our ages, Harold is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Perhaps he is one of yours, too. Or perhaps you are about to meet him for the first time as you turn the pages that follow. Welcome—or welcome back—to his story, and thank you for being a part of my own.
—J.H.
Editor’s Note
The book you are about to read was brought to my attention in a most unusual way. One Friday afternoon, just before closing time, I heard a scratching sound at the front door of my office. When I opened the door, there before me stood a sad-eyed, droopy-eared dog carrying a large, plain envelope in his mouth. He dropped it at my feet, gave me a soulful glance and with great, quiet dignity sauntered away.
Inside the envelope was the manuscript of the book you now hold in your hands, together with this letter:
Gentlemen:
The enclosed story is true. It happened in this very town, to me and the family with whom I reside. I have changed the names of the family in order to protect them, but in all other respects, everything you will read here is factual.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Harold. I come to writing purely by chance. My full-time occupation is dog. I live with Mr. and Mrs. X (called here the “Monroes”) and their two sons: Toby, age eight, and Pete, age ten. Also sharing our home is a cat named Chester, whom I am pleased to call my friend. We were a typical American family—and still are, though the events related in my story have, of course, had their effect on our lives.
I hope you will find this tale of sufficient interest to yourself and your readers to warrant its publication.
Sincerely,
Harold X
Chapter 1 - The Arrival
I shall never forget the first time I laid these now tired old eyes on our visitor. I had been left home by the family with the admonition to take care of the house until they returned. That’s something they always say to me when they go out: “Take care of the house, Harold. You’re the watchdog.” I think it’s their way of making up for not taking me with them. As if I wanted to go anyway. You can’t lie down at the movies and still see the screen. And people think you’re being impolite if you fall asleep and start to snore, or scratch yourself in public. No thank you, I’d rather be stretched out on my favorite rug in front of a nice, whistling radiator.