Pink, rosy-cheeks.  Huge, sparkling, dark-brown eyes surrounded by curling, black lashes that know how to fetch attention whenever she bats her eyes.  A tiny, snub nose.  A knowing smile that is accented by twin dimples in pudgy cheeks.  Curly blond hair that could rival Shirley Temple's. 

Only six years old, and Pinkie Overton can charm the socks of anyone who sees her.  She knows how to get what she wants and doesn't stop until her desires are answered.

She is one of the worst kids I have ever come across. 

When I learned of her terrible secret (found out about it quite by accident),  I was determined to help her, to see why she did the things she did:  strangling helpless animals until they quit breathing and died.  Or plunging her little brother's head in a bucket of water until he struggled for air.

Nobody could explain her behavior.  Her parents said that it was a phase she was going through:  there was nothing they could do except hope that it passed.  They absolutely refused to believe that their sweet, innocent little daughter could be capable of doing such malicious things.

How I learned of Pinkie's "secret" was when I came across one of my daughter's kittens lying partially hidden by the porch.  The kitten had a broken neck; it was clear that it would never purr or meow again.  It was dead:  stone-cold dead. 

I soon had the task of telling Rosalie of her kitten's fate.  Of course, as you can imagine, she cried.  She was beyond comforting.  I felt bad for her.  I figured a dog or perhaps a fox or something of that nature had gotten the kitten:  little did I know that it was Pinkie Overton who was behind the recent rash of small animal deaths in our neighborhood.

Whenever people would ask her about it, of course, she'd be Little Miss Innocent.  She'd bat those long-lashed lids, look at you with such trust in her dark eyes, or have a wry smile on her small face and deny everything.  She made a very convincing liar:  you were sure she was telling the gospel truth.

One day, I decided to babysit her while her mother went out of town on a business trip.  We seemed to hit it off; she behaved for me; nothing was amiss:  until that night, when I was awakened by a terrible yowling.  It sounded like my mama cat.  It was clear she was in trouble.  When I went to check on her, I found Pinkie with her chubby fingers wrapped around the cat's neck.  She was squeezing as hard as she could:  she was choking my cat.  That was when I had learned the terrible truth. 

Little Pinkie Madeleine Overton, aged six, was an animal killer.  She was the one who had been behind the animal killings in our neighborhood.

Thank God my cat had gotten away in the nick of time; she was shaken up, but she would be okay in a few days.

The truth was hard to digest.  I found the whole thing repulsive.  Why would such a beautiful child be prone to doing such dispicable acts of violence against helpless little animals?  What was her motive?  Would she eventually start hurting innocent people next?

I didn't want to find out the possibly chilling answer to that one.

(To be continued.)