When Malta Crowned a Fake Pope and Walked Shaved Dogs as Lions: The Island’s Wildest Scams Ever Told

A pretend pope and a dog that never existed: the incredible stories of scams
By Hot Malta Staff

Valletta’s narrow alleys have seen everything from pirate raids to papal processions, but few tales rival the sheer brass-necked audacity of the two frauds that rocked Malta in 1913 and 1974. One involved a barefoot Gozitan peasant who convinced half the island he was the newly-elected Pope; the other starred a Sliema spinster who sold pedigree “Maltese lions” that were, in fact, shaved stray dogs. Both hoaxes lasted only weeks, yet their after-shocks still echo in village bars, courtroom dramas and carnival floats.

The “Pope of Gozo”
On 5 September 1913, The Daily Malta Chronicle ran a breathless front-page: “FIRST MALTESE POPE CROWNED IN ROME!” The story claimed that Cardinal Mikiel Gauci, a fictional 73-year-old Gozitan, had been elected Pius X’s successor after a deadlocked conclave. Within hours, church bells rang out in Xagħra, shopkeepers closed for a holiday, and farmers in Żebbuġ slaughtered rabbits for free communal feasts. The source? A forged telegram “signed” by the Vatican’s press office, hand-delivered to the editor by Ġużeppi “Peppu” Bajada, a 42-year-old dockworker who couldn’t read Latin let alone Italian.

Bajada had spent months planting rumours: letters to priests, planted gossip in wine shops, even a doctored photograph of a cardinal in lace resembling him. The motive was not money—he never asked for a cent—but the thrill of watching an island that had never produced a pope collectively lose its mind. The hoax collapsed when a sceptical Canon Bonnici rang the real Vatican press office by telegram and received a one-word reply: “FALSUS.” By then, Bajada had already been carried shoulder-high through Victoria’s streets, blessing crowds with two fingers smeared in kitchen olive oil.

He was sentenced to 18 months in Corradino for “public mischief”, but emerged a folk hero. Gozitan band clubs still sing “Peppu Papa” during carnival, and the phrase “qisek il-Papa ta’ Għawdex” is Maltese for “you’re having me on.”

The Maltese Lion That Barked
Sixty-one years later, Sliema socialite Edwige Camilleri Debono unleashed an even more surreal scam. In January 1974 she placed classy ads in The Times: “Genuine Maltese Lion Puppies – direct descendants of Roman temple guardians, 200 liri each.” The pups, crated from a farm in Rabat, looked the part: caramel coats trimmed into a mane, tails teased into a tuft, vocal cords gently clipped to produce a low “roar” that sounded more like a growl.

Buyers included a judge, two British diplomats and the wife of a cabinet minister. The puppies, however, grew into something unmistakably canine: they barked at fireworks, chased cats and—most embarrassingly—lifted legs against the marble columns of the Mosta rotunda. When veterinary surgeon Dr Joe Felice X-rayed one “lion” for hip dysplasia he found, instead, a mongrel with a perm. Police raided Debono’s townhouse and discovered grooming kits, hair-dye labelled “Tuscan Sun” and a ledger listing 43 sales.

At court, Debono’s defence was pure Maltese ingenuity: “I never said they were felines, Your Honour. I merely reclaimed the Phoenician name for our national dog.” The magistrate was unimpressed: six months suspended and a 50-lira donation to the Island Sanctuary. Again, no one was truly outraged. The story became comic relief during the 1970s oil-crisis gloom, and souvenir shops still sell plush “Maltese lions” that bark when squeezed.

Why We Fall – And Why We Forgive
Both scams succeeded because they tickled twin Maltese vulnerabilities: fierce civic pride and an even fiercer appetite for a good yarn. In a country where parish feasts outnumber weekends, the line between faith and folklore has always been porous. Bajada offered Gozo the ultimate status upgrade; Debono sold Sliema residents a pedigree myth they could walk on a leash.

Yet the aftermath was oddly wholesome. Rather than lawsuits, victims traded jokes; instead of bitterness, carnival floats caricatured the hoaxes. The scams became shared cultural glue, proof that even con artists can’t resist Maltese gullibility—provided the punch-line is good enough.

Conclusion
From papal pretenders to poodle-lions, Malta’s greatest swindles remind us that on a rock where everyone knows your nanna, the boldest crime isn’t forgery or fraud—it’s convincing the island to dream bigger than its size. The bells that rang for a fake pope and the leashes that snapped for a fake lion still echo as cautionary lullabies: believe, but verify; laugh, then learn. Because in Malta, tomorrow’s bar-stool legend is only one outrageous story away.