‘Vesuvius,’ he said to his wife one evening as they were preparing for bed, ‘I have done something dreadful.’

      And he told her the whole sorry story of how he had accidentally killed Barkus Wooferinicum and forty-seven other dogs. And how, rather than admit this to Filius, he had instead been dressing up as a dog for the past three weeks.

      ‘I am a turtle fighter,’ sighed Caecilius. ‘I mean, I am a terrible father.’ He scooped up a grade ‘B’ fart and looked at it sadly. ‘No, no, I don’t even deserve this,’ he sighed, and threw the fart down the toilet, which for farts is a sort of nightclub where they can dance with all their friends.

      ‘Perhaps you are not as terrible as you think, my dear husband,’ smiled Vesuvius, and she flung open the window with her mind to reveal an unexpected sight. It was Filius, and he was playing with forty-eight dogs in the garden. And the biggest and shiniest of all the dogs was –

      ‘Barkus Wooferinicum!’ laughed Caecilius. ‘He’s not dead at all! And neither are the other dogs I thought I’d killed!’

      ‘Actually the other forty-seven dogs are dead,’ said Vesuvius sadly. ‘The ones Filius is playing with are a different forty-seven dogs. But you are quite right – Barkus Wooferinicum himself is absolutely fine.’

      ‘See, Father, you only stunned him with that fig!’ cried Filius from the garden.

      ‘So you knew the whole story all along,’ laughed Caecilius, fondly stroking his son’s hair even though he wasn’t standing anywhere near Filius and couldn’t possibly have reached him. ‘And yet you made me dress up as a dog for three whole weeks!’

      ‘Yes, Father,’ replied Filius seriously. ‘For the moral of Ancient Pompeii is this: “Be thou honest in thy dealings”.’

      ‘It is true,’ said Caecilius thoughtfully. ‘I was not honest with you, Filius, and for that I apologise. I am sorry I killed your dog.’

      ‘But you didn’t kill him, remember?’ said Filius.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ said Caecilius. ‘Well, then, I am sorry I didn’t kill your dog.’

      ‘Hold on,’ said Filius, ‘you’re sorry you didn’t kill him?’

      ‘No, that came out wrong,’ said Caecilius, ‘but the important thing is, I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Goodnighticus, everyoneicus.’

      So Caecilius and Vesuvius went to bed and slept, and dreamt their happy dreams. Caecilius dreamt he was a chef.

      The next morning Vesuvius woke up and when she put on her shoe, she said, ‘Oh, what’s this? There is something in my shoe.’ And when she looked inside she got the surprise of her life because she found nothing other than –

      ‘A GHERKIN!’ cried Vesuvius, aghast. ‘How in the name of Jupiter did that get there?’

      But only one man in the whole of Pompeii knew the answer, and that man was already well on his way to market to get the early fart, chuckling as he went.

       THE END