Bunnicula: Prologue–Chapter 1

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.

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 hope you will find this tale of sufficient interest to yourself and your readers to warrant its publication.

I hope you will find this tale of -sufficient interest to yourself and your readers to warrant its publication.

I had been left home by the family with the admonition to take care of the house until they returned.

No thank you, I’d rather be stretched out on my favorite rug in front of a nice, whistling radiator. But I digress.

Well, it was cold, the rain was pelting the windows, the wind was howling, and it felt pretty good to be indoors.

In the midst of this reverie, I heard a car pull into the driveway.

Pete and Toby bounded into the room, both talking at the top of their lungs.

My tranquil evening had been destroyed and no one had even said hello to me.

Oh no, with us it’s "Hey Harold, Dad got a raise and now we’re in a higher tax bracket,” or "Come sit on the bed, Chester, and watch this Wild Kingdom show. Maybe you’ll see a relative.”

An usher came over to their row to shush them, and Mr. Monroe borrowed his flashlight.

Now, most people might call me a mongrel, but I have some pretty fancy bloodlines running through these veins and Russian wolfhound happens to be one of them.

Because my family got around a lot, I was able to recognize the language as an obscure dialect of the Carpathian Mountain region.

Because my family got around a lot, I was able to recognize the language as an obscure dialect of the Carpathian Mountain region.

But I couldn’t tell if it was a note from a bereaved mother or a piece of Roumanian sheet music.

It was decided that Mr. Monroe and the boys would make a house for him out of an old crate and some heavy-duty wire mesh from the garage.

Mr. Monroe sat down, a dazed expression in his eyes, as if he were wondering how he came to be sitting in his own living room in a wet raincoat with a strange bunny on his lap.

I signaled to Chester and the two of us casually moseyed over to a corner of the room.

Chester turned to me and said under his breath, "That lettuce looks repulsive, but if there’s any milk left, I get it.”

I had a crick in my neck for days.

The boys shouted in unison: "No! He has to have a name right now.”

"Mom, you’re not going to let him name him, are you? That’s favoritism, and I’ll be traumatized if you do.”

"Mom, you’re not going to let him name him, are you? That’s favoritism, and I’ll be traumatized if you do.”

"What about Chester?” Toby said, dropping the frantic cat to the floor. "Maybe he would like it.”

Chester made a beeline for Mrs. Monroe and looked up at her plaintively.

Chester made a beeline for Mrs. Monroe and looked up at her plaintively.

"Goodnight, Pete!” Mrs. Monroe said with great finality as she came back into the living room, and then more calmly, "Good night, Harold. Good night, Chester.”