Horace & Bunwinkle

by PJ Gardner

  After what she had just seen in that back room, Winkie didn’t plan on leaving Ellie’s side ever again.

  As they drove away, she whispered to Horace, “I have so much to tell you.”

  7

  A Real Mystery

  Horace snuggled down into his blankets on the couch while Bunwinkle told him about the horrors she’d witnessed.

  “It was awful, Horace. This one cat was missing an eye. She started to rip off her bandage so she could show me, but I got out of there. And this other cat, they cut off the tail. She showed me the stump and everything. And then—”

  “No.” Horace held up a paw. “No more. My stomach can’t handle it.”

  He shifted to get comfortable and pain shot up his neck. He winced. These wounds were a dreadful nuisance.

  Bunwinkle hopped up. “Here, let me help.”

  She pawed at the blankets until she’d practically knocked them both off the couch.

  “Th-that’s good,” Horace said. “I feel much better now, Clara.”

  “I’m not Clara—I’m Winkie.” Her eyes grew round. “Oh no. Did you lose your memory?”

  If he hadn’t been so uncomfortable, Horace would have laughed. “I know who you are. I was paying you a compliment. Clara Barton was a nurse during the Civil War. She founded the Red Cross.”

  “Let me guess. She was from New England.”

  “Of course.”

  Bunwinkle smiled, then jumped down again.

  “We have to do something, Horace!” She paced back and forth in front of the couch, an angry frown on her face. “We gotta stop those evil vegetarians.”

  “Veterinarians,” he corrected her automatically.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would respected professionals steal animals and do horrible things to them? If it were one of them, say that dreadful Dr. Schott, Horace might be able to believe it. But they would all have to be in on it, and he just couldn’t believe that.

  “Did you see any of the pets from the missing posters?”

  Bunwinkle’s nose wrinkled up as she thought. “I guess not.” She gave him a suspicious look. “You believe me, right?”

  “I believe you saw wounded animals, yes,” he replied.

  “What does that mean?” She put her front legs on the couch and glared at him.

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “It means I’m not convinced the vets are our culprits. I still think it’s more likely that Smokey is behind the petnappings.”

  “No way. You’re just saying that because she scratched you.”

  “I’m saying that because the evidence against Smokey is the strongest. First piece of evidence: you smelled cat fur and hand gel before you were chased in the field.”

  “Yeah, but the vets smell like that too, ’cause they treat cats all day and they gotta wash their hands afterward. And you saw their van drive by at the same time.” Bunwinkle shot him a smug smile.

  “Dr. Schwank was taking care of the Hogland horse. That’s why he was in the neighborhood,” Horace countered. “Smokey lives here.”

  “Oh yeah. What’s her motive? Why would she steal animals?”

  “Jealousy. She doesn’t have a home, so she’s taking pets away from theirs.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Winkie stomped a hoof. “And what about that missing goat? Smokey may be mean, but she’s not big enough to capture an animal that size.”

  Horace refused to back down. “The goat probably ran away on its own. We don’t know for sure that all the animals on those flyers were stolen. Or it’s possible Smokey had help from the mountain lion. Cats are notorious for traveling in packs.”

  Bunwinkle’s nostrils flared. “What about the animal experimentations?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Necessary medical procedures.”

  “It’s the vets. I’ll prove it.”

  “No you won’t, because I’m going to prove it’s Smokey.”

  They stared at each other until Eleanor came in to check on Horace. After she replaced his bandage, she hugged the two of them close.

  “Bunwinkle, you look after your brother, okay?” She turned to Horace. “And you look after your sister. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to either one of you.” She dropped kisses on their heads. “I’m off to pick up feed for the chicks. Love you guys.”

  Horace sighed. Eleanor was right. They were family now, and family cared for one another. It surprised Horace how much that meant to him. Plus the piglet would never leave behind her uncivilized ways without his constant supervision.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m not ready to look for clues right now, but we could watch those detective shows you like, if you want.”

  “Okay, I guess.” She snuggled next to him and started gnawing on the frame of the couch. “Too bad we don’t have popcorn.”

  Later, as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard her say, “I’m still going to prove it’s the vets.”

  By morning Horace’s neck was much better, and he was ready to prove his theory about Smokey. He’d hoped his partner would come to her senses, but she woke up more determined than ever to prove her theory.

  “We need to go to the field across the road, where the vets almost got me. There will definitely be clues,” she said.

  “But it’s not safe. You said so yourself. We can investigate the pond area where we last saw Smokey.”

  Bunwinkle narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re just scared of leaving the Homestead.”

  Horace sat up straight, and with all the dignity he possessed, he said, “Eleanor told us never to leave the property. Those are the rules. And since I am a good dog, I obey the rules. Unlike some piglets I could name.”

  “You know what? I’ll go by my—”

  Horace’s stomach twisted, remembering the last time they’d had a conversation like this. How Bunwinkle was chased through the field. No matter how much she frustrated him, he wanted her to be safe.

  “No,” he said. “We stay together.”

  Her mouth turned down. “Fine. I’ll go to the pond with you, but only if you promise to search the field with me afterward.”

  “Glad to see you’re being reasonable.”

  She stuck out her tongue as she passed by.

  The pond provided several interesting pieces of evidence. First, the ducks had returned, which irritated Horace to his core. How many times did he have to shoo them away? Second, there were signs of a struggle, and an interesting smell—hand sanitizer, animal fur, and something sweet, possibly cookies—lingered near the horse paddock. Third, and most important, they found a pet-grooming brush that hadn’t been there the day before. It had the Schott, Schwink, & Schwank logo, which was enough for Bunwinkle to start gloating.

  “Told you so,” she said with a smug smile.

  “It doesn’t prove anything,” Horace argued. “They give those away at the first exam. And it looks like someone wrote on the handle.”

  Bunwinkle tilted her head. “How can you tell? It’s all chewed up.”

  It was Horace’s turn to smile smugly. “Which obviously means Smokey got to it. She’s our culprit, all right.”

  “Oh, come on. Anyone could’ve chewed on it. Sniff it and see. It’ll smell like those rotten vets.”

  Horace wrinkled his nose. “I try not to sniff anything in this area. It’s downwind of the barn.” His ears sprang up. “Speaking of the barn, perhaps Smith and Jones saw something. Were they out yesterday?”

  “Supa erwy. Day were alweady back in da bawn when we got out hewr.” Bunwinkle slurped on something.

  “What’s in your mouth?”

  Her eyes shifted away. “Nofing.”

  “Spit it out.”

  Bunwinkle wrinkled her nose at him, then opened her mouth. A pile of pebbles poured out.

  Horace stared, eyes wide. “You’re lucky you didn’t choke.”

  “They weren’t very chewy anyway.” She shrugged. “Now, what about the horses?”

  “I think we should speak with t
hem. They’re possible witnesses.” Horace was proud he remembered that phrase from Andie’s Adventures.

  Bunwinkle slouched down. “Do we have to? They hate me.”

  “Nonsense. They simply don’t know you.”

  Eerie music filled the barn when they walked in. A moment later a human voice said, “Keep an eye out for visitors from other worlds.”

  Horace stopped. Where was that voice coming from?

  “Is someone here?” Bunwinkle called.

  They rounded the haystacks just as Smith hit the power button on the radio with his muzzle.

  It all made sense now. The mysterious music that first day. Jones’s wild theories. Horace had always wondered how an old barn horse knew so much about sprites and ghosts. Now he understood—they’d been listening to the radio.

  Smith put on an innocent expression and greeted them. Jones didn’t even pretend. He took one look at Bunwinkle and jumped back with a scream. “No winkies!”

  “Really, Jones! Bunwinkle has behaved as properly as she’s capable in yo—” Horace trailed off when he saw the look on her face.

  “I’ve got an idea.” She grinned at him, then stepped closer to Jones’s stall.

  “There’s something I need to tell you, Mr. Jones.”

  The horse turned his head away. “La, la, la. I cannot hear the little pig sprite talking. She will not lead me away to my doom. La, la, la.”

  Bunwinkle kept talking. “Look, I wasn’t supposed to say anything, because my mission is top secret. But I can’t have you blowing my cover, either. So here’s the deal: I’m a part of P.I.G.”

  Jones neighed, “I knew it. You’re part pig and part demon creature, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m all pig. But I also happen to be a part of the Paranormal Investigation Group. P.I.G. I’m here to look into recent paranormal activity.” She glanced over at Horace and winked.

  He tsked his tongue. How childish. Making up stories was no way to conduct an investigation. He would have to take over the questioning himself.

  But just as he opened his mouth, Jones whispered loudly, “You said you’re with P.I.G.?”

  Bunwinkle nodded solemnly.

  The old horse slowly inched his way to the front of the stall, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He stared at her a moment. Then he leaned down and stuck out his tongue. “Thee dat?”

  “Yeeahhh.”

  “Horrible, isn’t it?”

  Bunwinkle and Horace shared a confused look.

  Jones sighed deeply. “It’s the bluetongue. I just know it.”

  “The blue . . . what?” Horace asked against his better judgment.

  “The blue tongue. My tongue has turned a deep midnight blue. Obviously I’m diseased and about to die.”

  Bunwinkle leaned over to Horace and whispered, “Does it look blue to you?”

  “No,” he whispered back. “And isn’t bluetongue a sheep disease?”

  Jones whinnied. “Just gonna wither away and die, I guess.”

  Horace rolled his eyes. Sometimes Jones was just too much. Under his breath he whispered, “We need to ask them some questions.”

  “Hold on,” Bunwinkle whispered out the side of her mouth. To Jones she said, “Mr. Jones, before you pass over to the other side, could you answer a few questions for us?”

  The old gray horse sighed dramatically. “I suppose.”

  Horace jumped on a bale of hay so he wouldn’t have to shout.

  “Were you out in the paddock yesterday morning?” he asked.

  “Yeth.” Jones stuck his tongue out again. Probably to see if it was still blue, which it wasn’t. Not that Jones would believe that.

  Bunwinkle scrambled up next to Horace. “This is real important, Mr. Jones. A friend of ours was catnapped. Did you see anything? Like maybe a creepy red-haired guy?”

  “Or Smokey the cat,” Horace added.

  Jones pulled his tongue back in, and a serious look came into his eyes.

  “I saw who took your friend.”

  “It was Dr. Schott, wasn’t it?” Bunwinkle turned to Horace. “I told you it was the vets.”

  The old horse raised his head and pivoted his ears as though he was worried about being overheard. When he was sure no one could hear them, he stretched out his neck and whispered, “It was aliens.”

  Horace put a paw to his head. He was getting a headache.

  Bunwinkle’s excited nodding quickly turned to head shaking. “No. Not aliens, vetritarians.”

  Horace didn’t bother correcting her.

  “But it was aliens.” Jones stomped his hoof. “They watch us through the holes in the wall. Don’t they, brother?”

  Smith stopped scratching his neck on a post and nodded. “Don’t care for red delicious apples myself. But my brother loves them.”

  The three of them stared at the spotted horse until he returned to his scratching.

  “It’s true. I’ve seen them. Short. Gray. Wrinkly,” Jones insisted.

  “Dr. Schwink!” Bunwinkle tapped her front hooves quickly. “Horace, that’s totally Dr. Schwink.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake.

  “No, that is not ‘totally’ Dr. Schwink,” said Horace. “It’s nothing like the man. He’s tall and bald.” He turned to Jones. “And it wasn’t aliens either. It was Smokey the cat.”

  “No, sir. I know what that cat looks like, and it wasn’t her. It was aliens. Tell you something else: one peeked in at me with its single beady eye. And . . . and they talk to Mal. I’ve heard them. It’s all gibberish to me, but that varmint understands them.”

  “Mal the billy goat?” Horace asked, his stomach sinking. He’d met the goat once, and it had been quite memorable.

  “That’s the one. He sold all us critters out to the aliens.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a bald guy with a funny accent?” Bunwinkle asked, clearly not ready to let the vets off the hook yet.

  Horace shook his head. If there was one thing he’d learned from all those detective shows, it was that you had to follow the evidence. And the evidence said it was Smokey.

  “Aliens!” Jones insisted, almost as if he could read Horace’s thoughts.

  Bunwinkle shimmied off the hay bale, a sour look on her face.

  Horace leaned in to say thank you, but the old horse spoke first. “Be careful out there, young fella. Those creatures are looking to take us all. Watch out for the ray guns.”

  Bunwinkle waited for him on the other side of the hay bales, chewing on something. She spit it out and covered it with some loose hay.

  “I still say it’s the vets. Jones is an unreliable witness. Let’s go talk to this Mal and get his statement.”

  Horace groaned. Why did Mal have to be a witness? If Winkie thought Jones was unreliable, wait until she tried to talk to the billy goat.

  “We don’t need to speak with Mal. He’s—”

  “Gonna back up my suspiciousness about the vets.”

  Before Horace could answer, a loud thud came from the stall at the far end of the barn.

  “What was that?” Bunwinkle glanced around.

  “Mal,” Horace said with a sigh.

  “Well, let’s go talk to him.” She trotted over.

  He followed her even though he knew it was sure to end badly.

  They stood in front of the stall while Bunwinkle tried to interview the goat.

  “Mal, it’s Bunwinkle. Did you see who took the white cat with the awesomest mustache in the world?”

  No response.

  “It wasn’t aliens—it was the vets.” She moved closer to the door. “Right?”

  There was another thud. The latch gave out and the stall door sprang open, hitting Bunwinkle in the face. She sailed past Horace and landed in a heap.

  “Och, who dares to disturb Malcolm MacGoat?”

  Before Horace could move, the mad goat marched over to Bunwinkle and nudged her with his muzzle. She scowled at him, then rolled on her side and bit him on the shin.

  The goat jerked back. �
�Och. So it’s a fight ye be wanting?”

  Bunwinkle scrambled to her feet.

  “Well, lassie, yer about to meet my NOGGIN!” Mal bellowed as he charged the little pig.

  Horace watched in horror as their heads crashed together and Bunwinkle sailed through the air again. This time she landed in a loose pile of hay.

  He moved to check on her, which turned out to be a mistake. As soon as he lifted his paw, Mal charged at him, shouting, “So yer going to help the wee peg, are ye?”

  Horace sprinted off around the hay bales before the mad goat could catch him. “Stop it!” He called over his shoulder. “No one’s attacking you. We’re simply trying to ask a few questions.”

  “Oh aye? And that’s why yon peg bit my leg?”

  Horace was having trouble understanding Mal. “Peg? No, we need to know about the aliens, I mean the eyes. I mean, we just want to know who’s been taking the animals.”

  “Tell them what you’ve done, Mal!” Jones yelled from his stall. “Confess!”

  The other animals chimed in too.

  “Headbutt, headbutt,” chanted the nanny goats.

  From outside the chicks screamed, “Earthquake!”

  And the alpacas laughed.

  What a bunch of animals! If he survived this, he would never come back into the barn again.

  Suddenly, from the top of the hay bales, Bunwinkle shouted, “Eat hooves, jerk face!”

  Mal’s eyes opened wide. “Yer off yer noggin, wee peg.”

  That’s when the wee pig launched herself at the billy goat.

  Horace expected the goat to move out of the way, but Mal froze. The billy goat’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he started to fall over. Bunwinkle collided with his body on the way down and they hit the ground together with a loud thunk.

  Her head popped up, a fierce gleam in her eyes. “That’ll teach him.”

  “What in heaven’s name is going on in here?” Eleanor stood by Smith’s stall, hands on her hips. “Bunwinkle, leave Mal alone! Go sit by Horace.”

  Eleanor knelt by the billy goat’s side and examined him. A few minutes later he came to and lurched to his feet. Eleanor walked him around a bit to make sure he was truly all right.

  “Wee dog,” Mal called out before he entered his stall. “It was nae aliens. Just a couple o’ wee bairns.”