by James Howe
To Dan Darigan,
who has the best laugh east of the Mississippi
—J.H.
For Mary Jane
—B.H.
HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL
Last night, Pete got into trouble with Mr. and Mrs. Monroe. He was supposed to write a story for school, but he didn’t and he’s getting an eff. I don’t know what that is, but it must be bad, because Mr. Monroe said, “I can’t believe my son – the son of an English professor – got an eff on a writing assignment!”
Pete said, “How was I supposed to write a story when I didn’t have an idea?”
I wonder if it’s like a stain. I remember the time I got into trouble for drooling on something Mr. Monroe had written. It left a stain, but it wasn’t my fault. I was just happy to see him.
Pete and I don’t usually agree about things. Maybe that’s because he’s an eleven–year–old boy and I’m a puppy, but I think it’s mostly because we don’t look at things the same way. This time, though, I had to agree with him. I know what it’s like trying to write when you don’t have an idea.
Like now. I’m supposed to be writing a third book in my series, Tales from the House of Bunnicula, and I used up all my ideas on my first two.
I asked Uncle Harold what to do. Uncle Harold wrote all those books about our rabbit, Bunnicula, so he knows a thing or two about writing.
He said, “Well, Howie, the big question a writer has to ask himself is –”
“When do I get paid?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“When do I get my picture on the cover of Canine Quarterly?”
“Howie,” uncle Harold said, giving me that look he gets sometimes when he thinks I’m not taking life seriously. Personally, I don’t think life should be taken seriously. Except maybe when your food dish is empty, or you really, really, really need to go out and everybody’s saying, “It’s your turn to walk the dog!”
Anyway, what he told me is that the big question writers ask is, “what if?” which I guess I knew already.
“You have to put yourself in the place of others, Howie,” he went on. “Ask how you’d feel if what happened to someone else happened to you. Or if you could do something impossible. Like fly.”
“or stay awake for more than two hours in a row?”
“Exactly.”
I don’t think a book about staying awake for two hours and fifteen minutes will sell many copies. I’d better ask different “what if.”
What if . . . what if . . . what if . . .
What if I were like that kid in the book Toby’s been reading to uncle Harold and me every night? That kid has a pretty interesting life. His parents have died, see, and he lives with these really mean relatives, but then he discovers he’s got special powers, and when he goes off to a school to learn how to use them, he finds out he’s famous and . . .
That’s it! I know just what I’m going to write!
Hey, that “what if” comes in pretty handy.
Maybe if Pete had used it, he wouldn’t have gotten an eff.
Howie Monroe and the Doghouse of Doom
By Howie Monroe
CHAPTER 1:
“THE IMPORTANT LETTER”
Howie Monroe was as smart as a whip and as cute as a button, but that didn’t stop him from being an orphan. He lived with his mean aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, and their wretched, runny-nosed sons, Toby and Pete.
(NOTE to the real Monroes: This is only a story! You are not mean, wretched, or runny-nosed.) (Except maybe for Pete.) (Sometimes.)
The Monroes made Howie sleep under Pete’s bed, which was a dark and scary place, full of all kinds of creepy stuff, including several generations of dust bunnies. (See Book 1: It Came from Beneath the Bed! by Howie Monroe.) They were so mean to him, they fed him every other day and even then, were so stingy, they gave him only Kibbles or Bits.
Howie Monroe dreamed of a better life where he would not be called “dumb dog” all the time and everyone would recognize how special he was.
How, do you ask, did he know he was special? He knew because when he noticed his face reflected in his water dish, he saw that he was as cute as a button; when he did the crossword puzzle in his mind while sleeping under the single sheet of newspaper that was sometimes provided for warmth on cold winter nights, he knew he was as smart as a whip; and, besides, he had a mysterious pain in his back left leg that he was sure was a mark of his being an unusual dog with special powers.
One day, he got a letter in the mail. It was a good thing that none of the Monroes were home. Otherwise, Pete and Toby would have folded it into a paper airplane and flown it over his head while he yipped and chased after it. This time, he ran quickly to read it under Pete’s bed, and what a lucky thing he did because it was a letter that would change his life forever!
Dear Resident, it began promisingly, You, too, could be a dog wizard! Take this simple test to find out!
1. Do you live with cruel relatives who make you sleep in a dark and scary place?
Howie looked around at the cobwebs and dust bunnies. Check!
2. Do you have an unusual physical characteristic that has great significance that won’t be revealed to you until an important point in the story?
Howie thought of the bursitis in his back left leg. Check!
3. Do you have a spirit of adventure, a sharp mind, and ten bucks to return with the enclosed application to the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers?
Howie glanced at the crumpled ten-dollar bill lying under a heap of Pete’s smelly, dirty socks. Check!
Yes! He was going to the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers! He, Howie Monroe, cute, adorable, but pitiful enough to make the reader feel sorry for him, was going to find out how special he really was!
He might even get to eat Kibbles and Bits!
HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL
Uncle Harold said I’m off to a good start, although the story reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place it. Then he said he didn’t think my readers would know what “bursitis” is. When he asked me hoe I knew what it was, I told him I’d heard Mr. Monroe complaining about his bursitis after attempting a full lotus position while doing one of his yoga tapes. Uncle Harold felt I should define “bursitis” for my readers.
Okay, here goes:
bur-si-tis/n: inflammation of a bursa
bur-sa/n: a bodily pouch or sac between a tendon or a bone
ten-don/n: a tough cord or band of dense white fibrous connective tissue that unites a muscle with some other part (as a bone) and transmits the force that the muscle exerts
fi-brous/adj: containing, consisting of, or resembling fibers
fi-ber/n: a thread or a structure or object resembling a thread, as
Aargh!
My definition of bursitis:
bur-si-tis/n: a mysterious pain in the back left leg that has great significance that won’t be revealed until an important point in the story.
CHAPTER 2:
“WIZ-ON-WHEELS”
Even though Howie was a daring, adventurous, and ready-for-anything kind of puppy, he didn’t want to go to the Dogwiz Academy for Canine Conjurers all by himself, so he asked his best friend, Delilah, to go with him. He knew she would like the idea of going to school because she was very, very, very, very, very, very smart. (See Book 2: Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteroid 6!™ by Howie Monroe.)
Delilah was a dog who lived down the street. She had curly blonde ears, long eyelashes that moved faster than a hummingbird’s wings, and, as was mentioned in the previous paragraph, a fine mind in good working order.
Following the directions contained in the lett
er he received after sending in his application and ten bucks, Howie led Delilah to the place where they were to wait for a minivan with the words “Wiz-on-Wheels” written on its side.
The place was an abandoned gas station on the wrong side of the tracks. When the Wiz-on-Wheels showed up, the doors would open, and they were to say, “Ippity-up.”
“I’m ever so grateful you invited me to join you, Howie,” Delilah said in a British accent as they waited.
“Why are you speaking in a British accent?” Howie asked.
Delilah did not have an answer for this. It was only the beginning of things-not-being-what-they-had-been-before-becoming-oddly-strangely-different.
Suddenly, a van the color of night—well, more like dusk, really—pulled up in front of the abandoned gas station on the wrong side of the tracks. The doors opened. It was impossible to see inside.
Howie and Delilah looked at each other, gulped, and said, “Ippity-up!”
All at once they were floating through the air, up, up, up into the van. The door closed behind them.
“All aboard for Dogwiz!” said a disembodied voice. The van lurched forward. There was no driver in sight.
“Wow!” said Howie as he looked at the other dogs already seated.
“Blimey!” said Delilah.
“Hello,” said the scraggly-looking puppy Howie sat down beside. Besides. Beside. Next to.
“Hello,” said Howie. “Who are you?”
“I’m Snivel,” said the dog. “I’m poor, but please don’t hold that against me. I come from a long line of canine conjurers. My brothers and sisters all went to Dogwiz, and now I’m going too. I’m going to be your new best friend.”
Howie liked Snivel right away.
“I’m . . . ” he started to say, by way of introducing himself. But he felt a sudden twinge of pain in his back left leg. “Ooo,” he moaned, “my bursitis.”
“Did you say ‘bursitis’?” said Snivel. “Wow, you’re Howie Monroe! My new best friend is Howie Monroe!”
How did Snivel know who he was?!
Howie glanced worriedly at Delilah.
Delilah glanced worriedly at Howie.
Howie was worried that something terrible was going to happen once they arrived at Dogwiz.
Delilah was worried that she was going to be saddled with a British accent for the rest of the story.
CHAPTER 3:
“THE-EVIL-FORCE-WHOSE-NAM-C’NOT-BE-SPOKE”
When Howie arrived at Dogwiz, everyone stared at him and muttered, “That’s Howie Monroe, that’s Howie Monroe.” Howie thought this was strange at first, but then decided it was very nice. Everyone must have read his first two books (It Came from Beneath the Bed! by Howie Monroe and Invasion of the Mind Swappers from Asteroid 6!™ by Howie Monroe), which turned out to be true, but it was not the reason everyone recognized him. Everyone recognized him because of his bursitis.
A giant dog named Hamlet explained it all to him.
“Yer parents, Howard ’n Heather,” Hamlet told him, “wer conj’rers o’ th’ first ord’r. I tell yeh, laddie, they wer known fer ’n wide fer the’r conj’rin’.”
Howie wondered at Hamlet’s way of speaking in apostrophes.
“But ther’s an evil force in th’ world, boyyie-lad. So evil ’iz nam c’not be spoke. When yeh speak ov ’im y’must say, The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke.”
Cool, Howie thought.
“This evil force is big,” Hamlet went on.
“You mean big as in powerful?” Howie, the ever-curious dachshund puppy, asked.
“Nah, I mean big as in fat,” Hamlet explained. “One day, The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke did a tur’ble thing, the moz tur’ble thing ’e ever dun. ’E destroyed yer parents, lad, the good ’n saint’ly Howard ’n Heather—and ’e nearly destroyed U2. ’E woulda, if yeh had’n run fer it.”
Howie was disturbed. How could Hamlet have used an apostrophe in “saintly” when he hadn’t even dropped a letter? Still, he sensed that there were more important questions to ask.
“Why did The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke destroy my good and saint’ly parents? How did I escape? Why don’t I remember any of this? When do we get to eat?”
“Aye, yeh’ll be eatin’ in the Chamber o’ Chow soon enuf. But before yeh go, let me tell yeh th’ rest o’ th’ story. The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke didn’t like yer parents because o’ th’ way they treated ’im back in grade school. And bein’ an evil force ’n all, ’e was one t’ hold a grudge. ’E also did’n care fer th’ way yer parents used their conj’rin’ powers fer good ’n not fer evil. That jus’ got on ‘is nerves. So one day ’e sat on ’em.”
Howie gasped. The picture that came to his mind was not a pretty one.
“They wuz squished, pure ’n simple, there’s no nic’r way t’ put it, boyo. But you, yeh frisky, quick-footed thing yeh, yeh ran outta the way jest in time, and all yeh were left with was—”
“Bursitis in my back left leg,” Howie said, finishing the sentence for him.
“Aye,” said Hamlet. “Yev got the gift, laddie-boyo-boy-kiddie-me-laddio, yer meant fer conj’rin’. That’s what they’ll learn ya here. But be warned: The-Evil-Force-Whose-Nam-C’not-Be-Spoke has got it in fer ya. ’E’s jest been waitin’ fer yeh to claim yer special powers and when yeh do . . . ”
“What?” Howie asked as a cloud of concern passed over Hamlet’s brow.
“Jus’ don’ go near the Doghouse o’ Doom, that’s all I ken tell ya.”
The supper bell rang, and Howie, hungrier than he’d ever been in his whole life, ran off to join his friends in the Chamber of Chow. On his way, he passed a small building under a tree. The tree was whistling.
A talking frog named Hoppy said to him, “Hoppy doesn’t want you to go near that small building, sir. It is not a good idea, sir.”
“But why is the tree whistling?” Howie asked.
“That is the Whistling Willow,” Hoppy told him. “Its music has charms and will lure you to the small building, sir, and oh, dear, sir, Hoppy cannot say the rest, sir. No, indeed, sir, it, sir, wouldn’t be, sir, wise, sir.”
Howie wondered why everyone spoke so oddly here, then remembered that he was the author, so he supposed it was probably because he made them talk that way.
“Is that the Doghouse of Doom?” Howie asked.
Hoppy hopped away. “Hoppy cannot say, sir. Oh, no, sir, Hoppy cannot say.”
Howie stood frozen to the spot. The Whistling Willow whistled “I’m a Little Teapot,” almost succeeding in luring him to the Doghouse of Doom. But the song reminded Howie that he was hungry. Off he ran to the Chamber of Chow. He could hardly wait to eat!
HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL
Uncle Harold says I have an impressive vocabulary for a puppy! Wow! I impressed Uncle Harold! That means a lot to me, because I think Uncle Harold is an awesome good writer!
He told me, “I like the characters named Hamlet and Hoppy, although they seem familiar somehow.”
Then he said maybe I was being a little too self-promotional because I mentioned my other books several times. I told him wasn’t being self-promotional, I was providing valuable information to the reader.
He said, “Uh-huh,” and walked away.
Well, I’d better get back to my writing. I can’t wait to find out what happens next, either. Guess I’ll have to write it to find out!
NOTE TO MYSELF: What does “vocabulary” mean? Look it up!
CHAPTER 4:
“BACON MALCONTENT AND THE AERIATED ELASTICUS”
That night, Howie, Delilah, and Snivel were hanging out in the student lounge, eating popcorn balls and watching I Dream of Jeannie on Nick-at-Nite, when Bacon Malcontent and his two stooges, Grab and Run, stepped in front of them and blocked their view.
“Excuse me,” Snivel said politely, “you’re blocking our view.”
“Yes,” said Delilah, “we’re coming to one of the best bits and we’d be ever so grate
ful if you’d step aside.”
Bacon Malcontent was a terrier whose superior breeding had left him with a permanent sneer. Grab and Run were mutts, but they’d forgotten that fact ever since Baco, as everyone called Bacon Malcontent, had let them run with him.
“So,” said Baco with a sneer (which he couldn’t help, since it was permanent and all), “you’re the famous Howie Monroe. Bursitis Boy.”
Howie felt the pain in his back left leg flair up. He didn’t like being called Bursitis Boy. “Yeah, so?” he replied cleverly to Baco’s taunt.
“Just watch out,” Baco said.
“For the Doghouse of Doom?” Howie asked.
“The Doghouse of Doom?” laughed Baco. “That’s a good one, isn’t it, boys?”
Grab and Run laughed too, though their eyes remained as empty as a finely tuned concert piano.
HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL
Uncle Harold just glanced at what I was writing and said that I used that concert piano simile in another book (see Book 1: It Came from Beneath the Bed! by Howie Monroe) and, besides, it doesn’t make nay sense.
I don’t understand why things have to make sense.
Grab and Run laughed too, though their eyes remained as empty as a cat’s bowl after the dog has gotten there first.
“Huh!” Baco snorted. “Everybody has to watch out for the Doghouse of Doom. You—Bursitis Boy—have to watch out for . . . us!”
Baco, Grab, and Run walked away, bumping into one another as they went.
Howie turned to Delilah and Snivel.
“I’m worried,” Snivel said. “Baco means trouble.”
Delilah immediately pulled out the notebook she carried everywhere and wrote in her glossary of magic terms: Baco = trouble.
Delilah wasn’t as smart as she made you think she was.
