Lucifer was sly. Lucifer was vicious. Lucifer was Amy’s cat. The name and the cat came together in one package. This was no Tiddles, no triple barrelled Alberto-Cuddlington-Snuggles the Third. This truly was the feline Lucifer.
Shredded curtains, pulverised mice and mauled flowerbeds bore witness to his demonic power. True he could be cute. This was just to lure you in, draw you closer, get you within swiping distance. Just ask the Reverend Whitlock. (He of the blood stained dog collar).
Yet one day Lucifer met his match. Not that tabby from behind the Co op. Not some celebrity cat trainer from BBC Four. No. Miranda, age eight, sparkly hair slides and a permanent smile from two doors up.
Miranda knew nothing of Lucifer’s track record, not even his name. Like the passage they always read at weddings, Miranda was patient, Miranda was kind. So when Lucifer spat at her, she thought he had something stuck in his throat and got him a saucer of cream. When Lucifer took a deadly clawed swipe at her nose she thought he was only being playful and tickled his tummy. Miranda even used her own pocket money to by Lucifer a collar.
Amy came home from work at the Chiropractors one day to find Lucifer with a sparkly pink collar. His once gleaming, scheming eyes were now like the scuffed and battered toes of an eight year old boy’s school shoes. Lucifer looked forlornly up at his owner, if he could speak he would have said “Mother take this clasp away from me”.
Due to the attentions of Miranda Lucifer was never quite the same cat again, which was ironic because Miranda was an absolute bugger at Sunday school.
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