While felines hold a special place in my heart, I support all of God’s creatures, including local wildlife, and never want to see them injured or killed. Which is why it pains me to tell the story of Annabelle, a Russian Blue rescue who stole my heart and continues to hold it ransom while living the life of an executioner – not out of necessity but for the love of the kill.

It’s not something I’m proud of. But sometimes our dirty secrets need to come up for air. If the title of this essay were My daughter is a serial killer, then it’s possible that Netflix would have bought the rights to my story. After all, who doesn’t love a good documentary about a female serial killer, especially one told by the killer’s mom? Aileen Wuornos didn’t even get that.

Annabelle’s namesake might have been kismet. Remember that horrifying and disturbing giant-eyed doll in those haunted house films of the same name? Perhaps, to her many victims, she may not be too far off from that description. Each are dismembered limb by limb. After they’ve been pulled apart like a rack of ribs at an all-you-can-eat BBQ, Annabelle proudly displays each of the internal organs. “Look!” she’s saying. “I found the prize inside!” All this pulling, shredding, and grandstanding is a prelude to the main event, which of course is eating the now lifeless creature piece by piece.

Decapitation? It’s been done. Saving the victim’s tail to use as dental floss after the meal? Yep. Leaving a messy trail of blood on the porch for the neighbor walking her dog to wonder what might have happened inside the house? Unfortunately, yes. The only difference between Annabelle and Jeffrey Dahmer is that she doesn’t save parts in the freezer for leftovers.

I tried to keep my kitty kill-free. When she first came into my home, I declared that this precious girl, so dainty and so refined in manners, would be an indoor only cat. That only worked for so long, because her older brother, Kitty Bu, was slinking around outside each night, making his kills, and it was only a matter of time before she started begging me to join him. Her repeated soft cries and slow, exaggerated pawing motion at the door wore me down until I finally relented. Soon Bu was showing her the ropes, and her natural born talents began to shine. Her first victim was a baby Garter snake. She was so delighted to show it off, and I still have a photo to commemorate the occasion. Annabelle had graduated from stuffed toy to real kill.

I hadn’t realized that taking photos and celebrating her new life as a predator was the beginning of my complicit nature in her crimes. However, it suddenly became clear when I was behaving like the TV character Dexter managing one of his episodic kills. The only difference was, while the meticulous Dexter did both the killing and the clean-up I had only one role: the crime scene custodian charged with wiping away all evidence of what had taken place.

I wish it were true that once Annabelle eats her victims there is no trace left of the event. But the reality is that parts always remain. The plated liver that no child is willing to eat at the dinner table is also true for felines. Also, if she’s become too full, there are times that she will leave the entire head for disposal. Just imagine the fun I get to have! Though I loathe my custodial duties I never think twice about a swift and thorough clean-up. This is because I don’t want to ruin anyone’s day, and that includes the Amazon delivery guy who might lose his lunch after seeing the dead-eyed face of a baby bunny lying directly where he leaves our packages on the porch.

It’s possible that Annabelle has killed hundreds, making her among the most prolific serial killers on record. I don’t celebrate this win. What may have been cute when she first started out got out of hand years ago and I’ve felt helpless to slow down this train. I carry the remorse for both of us, because, well, this is a cat we’re talking about, and to my knowledge she has never lost a wink of sleep over her deadly pastime. Perhaps there is a reckoning that animals who kill must face at the end of their lives.  Or maybe God just throws up His hands at these creatures, sighs, and says, “well, even though you made the Rainbow Bridge busier than rush hour in Atlanta, at least you stayed true to yourself.”

Now, at the ripe old cat age of sixteen and with a terminal cancer diagnosis given by the vet earlier this spring, I imagined Annabelle’s wild and carefree killing days were behind us. After years of guilt for her savagery upon nature’s helpless creatures and the unwelcome massacres near my front door, I must admit that along with a gut-wrenching heartache also came relief. My job now would be to provide palliative care while my sweet girl ate her favorite treats, got lots of rest, and played only when she felt like it. If, and only if, she felt well enough to venture outside then she and I would do it together. Not under cover of darkness, but in the daytime. She would rest and I would read. We would occasionally look up at the birds flying two by two through the sky and watch a butterfly do its frenetic dance along the yard. I naively thought that, with her condition now forcing her into retirement, she might enjoy this new version of outdoor time; that peace would prevail on the porch. Well, I guess a girl can be wrong, can’t she?

Memorial Day was shaping up to be beautiful. After the chores were done, I asked Annabelle if she wanted to join me on the porch. We each have our own chairs that are close enough together for me to provide lots of petting. After several minutes of gently stroking her head while getting lost in my book Annabelle decided to leave the porch. I honestly thought nothing of it, picturing her meandering to the driveway where she would do her famous back roll stretch – a favorite activity of hers during the few Zen moments she allowed herself between kills. I wasn’t worried. I knew she would be back any minute now for more R&R on her chair.

Moments later she did reappear, diligently making her way up to the porch with a lifeless baby chipmunk hanging from her mouth. The sight of this critter wedged between her jaws caused my mouth to fall wide open; you could have easily crammed the rest of that poor fella’s family inside. Before she started putting on her favorite buffet bib, I moved quickly to get Annabelle in the house and gently carried this creature’s body to the woods while praying for God’s forgiveness. I could not believe I was foolish enough to think that this long-time veteran assassin, despite having cancer and being of geriatric age, could possibly quell the killer within. I’m imagining an elderly version of Rambo with a walker, supporting himself with one hand while carrying out kills with a sniper in the other. Or an old mob boss who sees that his last enemy is eliminated before keeling over dead on the poker table. Annabelle, it seems, has a lasting beef with Mother Nature and she is not going quietly.

I haven’t met anyone who snuggles each night with a serial killer but I’m sure they exist. I do wonder, however, how many know the dark secret being kept by those they love, because I believe that knowing and continuing with those snuggles requires a little something extra.

There’s no getting around Annabelle’s truth. As soon as she began her adventures outside, I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that my daughter enjoys kills as much as cuddles. With Annabelle, I get the pleasure of a beautiful feline companion who believes in the power of slow blinking and late-night spooning. But this also means acknowledging her role in taking out half of the area’s squirrel population. The only way to accept my sweet girl fully – just as God made her to be – was to be here for all of it: the next level purring and the mastery of murder. Love asks us to accept the special people in our lives, warts and all. A nine pound, fluffy-tailed killer who also just so happens to enjoy a belly rub and chin scratch is a good place to start.

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Karen Weissert spent 20 years working in higher education and now devotes her time as a freelance writer and spiritual seeker. Her work also appears online at Tiny Buddha, Minimalism Life, and Humanity’s Team. Her husband provides her with daily, prescribed doses of humor, which are critical to her growth and flourishing. In her free time, she walks inside a ghost mall for temperature-controlled exercise.