Nighty-Nightmare by James Howe Page B

“See?”
    Mr. Monroe patted my head. Three times. And then he began to scratch. “This was Harold’s idea almost as much as mine,” he said. “I think he deserves to go.”
    â€œIt’s not Harold I’m worried about,” Mrs. Monroe said. “It’s the other two.”
    â€œMom,” said Pete, “there are three of them and four of us. They’ll be okay. Really. Trust me.” There was that tone again. It suddenly dawned on me that he used it only with his parents. He rarely yelled at them anymore; most of the time, he just smiled and spoke patiently, as if he’d discovered that they weren’t as bright as they’d always let on. He seemed to be saying, “It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me. I can handle making all the decisions from now on.” I think this change occurred shortly after he turned eleven.
    â€œWell, all right,” Mrs. Monroe replied, “but four people for three animals is one person too many.
You
three are in charge of them.”
    â€œIt’s a deal,” said Mr. Monroe.
    Mrs. Monroe swatted at the bugs that had migrated from the pitcher of flowers to a nearby bowl of fruit. “I’ll run to the store for supplies,” she said, “while you fellas get the tents and sleeping bags in order. Do we even have a tent, Robert?”
    Mr. Monroe looked blankly at his wife.
    â€œNo problem,” said Pete. “Come on, Dad. I’ll show you how to make a simple tent out of a tarp. We
do
have a tarp, don’t we?”
    Mr. Monroe looked blankly at his son.
    I decided this would be a good time for me to leave. The family had their work cut out for them. And so did I. I had to break the news to Chester.
    â€œCamping on Boggy Lake!?” Chester shouted, when I told him. “Didn’t those bozos ever see
Friday the Thirteenth?”
    â€œI don’t see what a stupid old horror movie has to do with real life,” I said. Chester, being a cat, needs to have his reality checked from time to time, the way car owners have their oil checked.
    Because he likes to read so much and watch all those movies on television, he’s developed a reality leak that requires constant attention.
    â€œOh, you don’t, eh?” he said, squinting in a knowing sort of way—or because the sun was in his eyes, I couldn’t tell which. “Stories like that don’t just materialize out of thin air, you know.”
    â€œ
I
know that,” I replied. Before I could say anything more, however, we were joined by Howie, who bounded up the steps of the back deck and practically knocked Chester over in his eagerness to be a part of the conversation.
    â€œI know where stories come from, Pop,” he said, gasping for air. Howie was usually out of breath. In fact, when he first came to live with us, less than a year ago, I was sure he suffered from some sort of bronchial ailment. But then I remembered what I’d been like as a puppy, and I realized he didn’t have asthma after all. He was just young, and life was keeping him too busy to stop and catch his breath.
    I saw that Chester’s eyes were closed. It wasn’t the sun; it was the effect of being called “Pop” bya
dog.
After all this time, he still wasn’t used to it.
    To keep the conversation moving, I asked, “Where do you think stories come from, Howie?”
    â€œBig buildings,” he said simply.
    Even Chester had to open his eyes for this one.
    â€œDon’t you remember,” Howie explained, “when we went to the vet two weeks ago, and we were all in the car, and Toby asked his father how many stories were in that new building downtown, and Mr. Monroe said fifteen, and there were five in the bank building, and seven in the insurance building and—”
    â€œYou’re wanted on the telephone,” Chester said.
    â€œReally?” said Howie.
    â€œYes. Hurry inside. It’s