The Agent of Satan: An Easter Story
Lula Mae left us clear signs that she's evil, but it wasn't until Easter 2020 that we truly knew where her loyalties lie.
Ah 2020. A year of things we’d probably all like to forget. Coby and I were holed up in our house, trying to stay safe and alive, when the devil had other plans. It was like the universe was trying to give us a message. Of death. As if we needed a reminder of its presence in 2020.
Our oldest cat, Lula Mae Golightly Weidenbach, is an onery kitty. Baby, she was born that way. After being rescued and taken in by the humane society, she tricked us into adopting her. She was all purrs and cuddles. Showing off her immense beauty by grooming her paws while we filled out the intake paperwork.
Little did we know, it was all an elaborate ruse to bust herself out of the shelter. A few days later, I picked her up from the vet (she needed to be spayed). The vet tech handed Lula over to me with a look of deep regret on her face and said to me, “This is an onery kitty. Good luck.”
And, turned out, we would need it. The vet tech’s warning ended up being a very accurate assessment of our baby kitty. She’s 12 now, and getting soft in her old age, but during COVID she was at the peak of her game. What game? The game of being a murderous bitch.
Lula is a serial killer. She kill things just for sport. She occasionally does consume her kills, but that’s the exception to the rule. The rule is that nothing within a 500 yard radius of our house is allowed to breathe unless it’s with Lula’s permission.
On a day much like today five years ago, Coby and I were planning to have a quiet Easter at home. I woke up later than normal, got a cup of coffee and went to enjoy it on the porch with our golden retriever, Stella. Lula said hello in her usual way: by pretending I wasn’t there and then trying to bite me when I got too close. I nursed my pride as I took my morning walk-about.
It must be an adult thing: the morning stroll through the garden. Checking on my plants and making sure the pool heater is on. I’ve been doing it ever since we moved into Stellstone (yes, my house has a name because I am insufferable, as we’ve covered many times). It’s calming and meditative. I take deep breaths and see if anything new has decided to flower overnight.
While I did this, Stella became very interested in something in the yard, close to the concrete walk way that circles that half of the house. I walked over to her and screamed. Right there in the yard sat the body of a rabbit. Only it was so mangled that I wouldn’t be able to tell what it was until later that day.
I grabbed Stella’s collar with one hand and balanced my coffee cup in another, begging her not eat whatever it was that had been dumped in our yard overnight.
The rabbit had been decapitated and disemboweled. Given that Lula had been the only cat outside that night, it was easy to discern the culprit.
I yelled for Coby and approximately two hours later he came downstairs to see what all the ruckus was about. Coby likes to sleep in. I’m an early riser. It results in me waiting for him by the coffee machine, fully caffeinated, bouncing on my heels to tell him what I’ve been doing while he’s been sleeping as he tries to avoid eye contact and prays for peace before the onslaught of words come tumbling out of my mouth. He rarely gets any peace.
Which is how I told him that there was something he had to see outside. He asked if it could wait until he had his coffee. It could not.
Coby begruntling followed me outside. He inspected the corpse in our yard. True to form, he took his time, sipping coffee and tilting his head down to the right and left, like a dog whose just heard a word he knows. Then he snapped a few photos and sent them to his friends. He did all of this while I stood next to him, patiently waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Coby likes to torture me like this. I’m loud and impatient. If I ask a question, I expect an immediate answer. But that’s not Coby’s style. He takes his time, weighs his words, not speaking until he knows exactly what he wants to say. But he also puts it on and drags it out just for my annoyance. It’s the little things like this that truly make a marriage.
Finally, Coby deadpanned, “that’s a rabbit.”
“Oh god, you’re right!"
“What day is it?”
“It’s Easter.”
“Lula decapitated and disemboweled a rabbit for us on Easter Sunday.”
Me, spitting out my coffee: “she is an agent of Satan!”
This did not come as a surprise. Lula’s been hinting at her dark roots and satanic ways for many years. Like the time she made my father-in-law bleed his own blood twice in one dinner for having the audacity to pet her (though the second time is definitely on him).
Or the time she ate a baby finch in front of its parents who stood on the fence screaming at her, and I sat on the porch in tears. It’s quite emotional to watch your cat devour someone’s child in front of its parents. I’ve never been so proud of her.
Our neighbors have trail cameras set up and they’ll see a coyote go by and then a few minutes later, Lula will be spotted trailing the coyote. As if she’s not prey. As if she’s the hunter.
This cat is only seven pounds. Seven pounds of pure fury.
She’s even taught our kind, sweet tabby cat Paul how to team hunt. Coby and I were eating dinner outside a few years ago when we spotted Paul, stalking through the grass on the other side of our fence, where for environmental reasons, we have to leave the land in its natural state. Coby nudged me and pointed, not saying anything so that Paul wouldn’t be given away.
Paul’s a big guy. He’s 18 pounds. And orange. He does not blend in. Which is why I thought it was funny that his clumsy ass was trying to be stealthy. Crouched down like an overweight tiger trying to maul children through the glass at the zoo. There was no way that this was going to work, but we played along and watched in silence as he stayed a few feet behind a family of quail.
Finally, he ran at them and as suspected, they easily evaded his slow pounce and flew into a nearby bush. But then something surprising happened. The bush started to shake and the birds started to scream bloody murder. A few seconds later, Lula Mae sauntered out of the bush with a baby quail in her mouth, it’s little wings going nuts, trying to get free. But with its head inside of Lula’s mouth, it didn’t stand a chance.
Paul had intentionally scared the quail into the bush where Lula was laying in wait. Fucking fantastic stuff right there. And we all know that this magnificent trick was not Paul’s idea. I mean, look at him. This is not the picture of overwhelming intelligence.
The rabbit who gave its life on Easter 2020 was unceremonious thrown in the trash bin. Don’t judge us: if we buried everything Lula killed we could open a cemetery. It was just lucky that Stella didn’t get a chance to further desecrate the body by devouring it, as she was known to do.
Lula is now our oldest. She runs the household with an iron fist and demands obedience and fealty from all other residents, including Coby and I. I think that’s why I love her so much. She is a very difficult woman. Something to aspire to. And it’s good to have a goal, dear reader. Even if the goal is to be as onery as possible.
Remember, stay difficult and always question authority.
"The game of being a murderous bitch." Ha! Entertaining, as usual!
This was a fantastic read. I freaking love cats