Wizki Tales

Wizki's Sick Joke


It was a sick joke from the brain of a sick stuffed puppy. Playing dead, indeed! He had never been so callous! Certainly, real dogs played dead but only when their owners told them to. And did he really need the fake blood, the noose, the suicide note? It was a poor show and it scared poor Fiona half out of her wits, and all because she wouldn't let him watch television after the 9 O'clock watershed. Who knows what was going through his tiny kapok-filled head.

Wizki only wanted to stay up because he was sulking. He didn't even like the 9 O'clock News. And he was only sulking because he'd been told off for being naughty. What did he expect, 3 cheers, when he had buried bones beneath the hallway floorboards, cracking the varnish in the process. He deserved to be sent to bed.

So Wizki skulked in his bedroom, contemplating his revenge. It only took a while before his Machiavellian mind came up with what he considered a suitable response. He re-appeared in the living room doorway in the middle of Newsnight with a scruffy piece of paper, on which he had scribbled in thick crayon in his neatest wobbly handwriting:

WIZKI DEMANDS

- To be allowed to stay up till 10 O'clock every day (including school days)
- An increase in pocket money (to £5 a day)
- Snorkelling lessons
- A new pair of trainers (as worn by Ronan from Boyzone)
- Cake for tea at every meal

OTHERWISE

Wizki will go on hunger strike until his demands are met.

He looked remarkably cute, stood defiantly in the doorway in his Che Guevara beret, so Fiona thought she would indulge him and go through each demand, one by one. Wizki sat on her knee as Fiona perused the list of demands.

"Before we start, may I have a snack while we negotiate," Wizki asked politely.

"Why, Wizki: I thought you were on hunger strike!"

"Yes I am, but I don't think it covers snacks, does it?"

"I'm afraid it covers everything."

"Everything? Even cake?"

"Everything," Fiona answered gently.

Wizki swallowed hard. Perhaps he should have suggested a bath strike instead. Ah well, he was going to stand firm, even if it hurt his poorly tummy to do so.

"OK, let's start at the beginning," Fiona said. "Staying up till 10 O’clock. Now I am quite prepared for you to stay up till 10 O'clock, but only in the mornings. I won't let you stay up till 10 O'clock at night: you get very grumpy if you don't get your sleep and I'm the one who has to put up with you. So yes to the morning, no to the nights. Does that sound like a fair compromise?"

"Maybe," Wizki said, quietly. He hadn't really been listening. His tummy hurt too badly. This hunger strike business was painful.

"Now, pocket money," Fiona continued. "I raised your pocket money on Monday. Remember? Raised it by a whole pound! So how about this: we can use that pound as the increase and call it evens. That way you get an extra pound and it doesn't cost me anything. OK?"

Ooh, his tummy was rumbling so loud he never heard a word. He nodded in agreement, but only so the negotiations would be over sooner. He needed something to eat. Desperately.

"Right, snorkelling lessons. Yes, you can have snorkelling lessons. That's fine. It will be good for you to get some physical exercise and to learn a skill. But you have to pay for them yourself. I can't fund the lessons: it has to come out of your own pocket money. Otherwise it wouldn't be fair, would it?"

Murder. Torture. Agony. Wizki's poorly belly was causing havoc. He nodded again, as he rubbed his tummy in a vain attempt to make the ache go away.

Fiona smiled: "We are flying through these demands, aren't we, Wizki. Who would have thought we would come to such quick agreement. Now, trainers. Provided you are willing to wait till your next birthday, you can have a new pair of trainers, even though the ones I bought you for gym are perfectly good. But the new trainers will have to be for this birthday, next Christmas, the following birthday and the Christmas after that. And you need to promise not to complain when you don't receive any more presents for the next 2 years. As long as you have no objections to those terms, we can move on."

Wizki was rolling on the floor in agony. Ooh, his tummy hurt.

"I'll take your 'ooh's and 'ow's as consent. OK, finally, cake for tea. Now as a responsible Mother I cannot agree to let you have cake for tea. But what I agree to arrange is 3 square meals a day, with cake phased in at weekends and occasionally on school holidays."

The very mention of food made Wizki's tummy rumble so loud he thought it would be heard in Timbuktu. He was doubled up in a ball. His stomach ache throbbed and pulsed. He could think of nothing else.

"Agreed?" Fiona asked.

"Agreed. Can I have some food, now, please?"

"Well, if you are happy with the outcome of these negotiations, then I guess you can call your hunger strike off. Yes, you can have a piece of toast."

Before she finished speaking, Wizki was out of the living room and into the kitchen. He didn't have time to make toast: he needed food now. He grabbed a slice of bread and shoved it into his mouth with both paws. He wolfed it down and felt considerably better for eating it.

"I want you straight to bed when you've eaten," Fiona stated. "I don't want you grumpy for school tomorrow."

Wizki sneaked another piece of bread into his beret and headed off to bed. Two pieces, tee hee. It was only when he was tucked up in bed again that he realised he had been duped. Fiona hadn't fulfilled a single one of his demands. She had taken advantage of Wizki's temporary distraction to sneak a settlement he would not ordinarily have agreed to. How cruel could she be? Why, he would show her.

So it came to pass that Fiona returned home the following evening to find Wizki sprawled on the floor in the living room, playing dead. He looked a sorry sight, with fake blood seeping into the rug and the television blaring away to keep Wizki from being bored while he waited. Fiona had a fit when she saw him, till she realised it was a scam. With an angry flourish, she hoisted the pup from his make-believe deathbed and dumped him in his real bed and told him firmly: "I don't want to hear another squeak from you till tomorrow morning!"

She stormed out in a huff but Wizki was determined to have the last word:

"Squeak," he squeaked, as she disappeared through the door.

That pup, ever the rebel. Che Guevara would have been proud of him.

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