“Well, Harold,” Toby said some time later, “we’ve had quite a party, but I have to go to sleep now. I can’t keep my eyes open, so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens in the next chapter. This is a good book, Harold. It’s called Treasure Island, and it’s by a man named Robert Louis Stevenson. It’s kind of hard reading, though. I have to keep looking the big words up in the dictionary, so it’s taking me a long time to get through it.”
I’ve always had trouble with words myself. Half the time they don’t mean what I think they’re going to, and then, even when I do find out what they mean, I forget the next day anyway. You might say that I’m smart—but just not the scholarly type.
“But it’s a really good story,” Toby continued. “It’s all about pirates and this little boy just like me.”
No dogs?
“And a parrot, Harold.”
A parrot? What’s a parrot? Is there anything about chocolate cake? That’s my idea of a treasure.
“Well, good night, Harold. If you’re going to sleep here, you’ll have to get off my stomach because it’s a little full right now.”
Good night, Toby.
I curled up at the foot of the bed, but I couldn’t sleep trying to figure out what a parrot was. I thought it might be a lady pirate, since the words sounded something alike, but then again, I thought it might be an umbrella. Chester would know, I thought, so I went downstairs to ask him.
“Well, you certainly took your time,” Chester snapped as I sauntered casually into the room. “I finished my book half an hour ago. Where were you?”
“It so happens I was discussing great works of literature with Toby.”
“Since when is a Twinkies wrapper considered a great work of literature?”
I decided to ignore that. Unfortunately, several chocolate crumbs fell from my mouth to the floor at precisely that moment.
“As a matter of fact,” I said, trying valiantly to regain my dignity, “we were talking about Treasure Island. Ever hear of it?”
“Ever hear of it?” he sneered. “I read that when I was a kitten.”
“Oh. Then, tell me, Chester, what is a parrot?”
Chester looked at me scornfully. “A parrot,” he said, “is a tropical zygodactyl bird (order psittaciformes) that has a stout curved hooked bill, is often crested, brightly variegated, and an excellent mimic. In other words, Harold, a parrot is a little bird with a big mouth.”
“Oh,” I said after a moment. “I thought maybe it was an umbrella.”
“Did you get so busy discussing parrots with Toby that you forgot you were going to meet me here? This is important, Harold.”
I still wasn’t sure what a parrot was, but I decided this was not the time to pursue it.
“Come over here,” Chester commanded, indicating his chair, “and let me show you this book.”
I looked at the chair. Chester was already sitting in it, with a very large book open in front of him.
“I don’t think there’s going to be room for both of us, Chester,” I said.
“Come on, come on, you’re wasting time. Just jump up here.”
I surveyed the scene carefully. I knew I would have to get a running start since there was just a tiny spot left for me and I would never be able to fit into it if I pulled myself up slowly. Apparently, I was taking too long for Chester’s liking.
“Will you get up here?” he hissed.
Okay, if that’s what you want. I ran and jumped onto the chair, landing with a great kerplop.
“Chester, where are you?” I cried. I couldn’t see anything but the back of the chair. I’d forgotten to turn myself around.
“I’m here, you great oaf!”
I turned my head. “What are you doing on the floor?” I asked.
“You knocked me off the chair. Now just stay put. I’m coming back up.”
I moved to the back of the chair, and Chester landed on the front.
“Now, let’s see,” he said, “we both have to see the book. You come over here, and I’ll move this way.”
I don’t know if you’ve ever watched a cat try to decide where to sit, but it involves a lot of circling around, sitting, getting up again, circling some more, thinking about it, lying down, standing up, bathing a paw or tail and … circling! A dog, on the other hand, sits. “This looks like a good spot,” a dog will say to himself. He will then lower his body to the spot in question and is usually so secure in his decision that he will fall asleep immediately.
Chester took what felt like twenty minutes to settle himself in, and just as I was drifting off, the kicks started. “Come on, Harold, quit hogging the seat. And wake up. What were you trying to do? Take a little cat nap? Ha ha ha.”
I yawned.
“Now,” said Chester, turning to the book, “let’s get down to brass tacks.”
“What exactly is on your mind?” I asked.
“This book and that rabbit,” Chester replied. “Now tell me, Harold, have you noticed anything funny about that rabbit?”
“No,” I said, “but I’ve certainly noticed a lot of funny things about you recently.”
“Think about it. That rabbit sleeps all day.”
“So do I. So do you.”
“Furthermore, he’s got funny little sharp teeth.”
“So do I. So do you.”
“Furthermore, he gets in and out of his cage by himself. What kind of rabbit can do that?”
“A smart one,” I said. “I could do it.”
“We’re not talking about you, Harold. We’re talking about the rabbit. Now, where did they find him?”
“At the movies.”
“Yes, but what movie?”
“Dracula,” I said, “so?”
“So,” he said quickly, “remember the note around his neck? What language was it in?”
“An obscure dialect of the Carpathian mountain region,” I answered smugly. He didn’t know everything.
“Ah ha!” Chester said, “but what area of the Carpathian mountain region?”
Area? What’s an area? I looked at him blankly.
“Transylvania!” he cried triumphantly. “And that proves my point.”
“What point? What are we talking about?”
“And don’t forget the white tomato! That’s most important of all!”
“But, what …”
“This book,” said Chester, disregarding me, “tells us just what we need to know.”
“What?” I practically screamed. “What does it tell us? What does this book have to do with Bunnicula? What are you talking about? What’s going on here? I can’t stand it anymore!”
Chester regarded me coolly. “You’re really very excitable, Harold. That’s not good for your blood pressure.”
I put my paws around his throat. “Tell me,” I said in a low, threatening voice, “or I’ll squeeze you till you pop.”
“Okay, okay, don’t get upset. Now this book tells you everything you’ve always wanted to know about vampires but were afraid to ask.”
Personally, I had never wanted to know anything about vampires, but at the moment, I was afraid to tell that to Chester.
“I still don’t understand what vampires have to do with our little furry friend.”
“One,” Chester said, “vampires do not sleep at night. They sleep only during the day. The same holds true for this rabbit. Two, vampires can get in and out of locked rooms. Bunnicula gets in and out of his locked cage.”
This was beginning to interest me. “Didn’t you say something about the refrigerator?”
“That’s right. He got the refrigerator open … all by himself. Three, vampires have long pointed teeth. They’re called fangs.”
“Well, don’t we have fangs?”
“No, we have canines. That’s different.”
“What’s different about it?”