Grudge Talk

Elizabeth Hess

Photo by Bill Heyward from “Cat People”

On Christmas Eve, just a few nights ago, we sat around a large table covered with food (I made the spinach), trying not to contemplate the state of the world. Who wants to argue about Israel vs. Hamas every night? Don’t we all deserve a pause, even a moment of joy? Ironically, the conversation took an upturn when we went around the table and each of us described our longest, best grudge. And how long we can hold a grudge without getting into crazy territory. And what affront qualifies as grudge worthy anyway? We all have them, or at least one. If you’ve never tried Grudge Talk—you should. Grudges are far more interesting than New Year’s resolutions.

At the top my list: a grudge against Peter for making me choose between him and Piet, pictured above. This photo, taken by Bill Heyward for a book on cat people, is all readily cemented my relationship with this complicated character.

Peter hates to be mentioned in this column. But as I told him, “That’s the price you pay for being my husband.” Seems low. As you can see, I was a youngster when we first met. It was 1977 and I was living on White St in Tribeca with Piet. Back-up for a second. This is how Piet came into the picture.

Piet’s Ballad

I was walking home from work, SevenDays magazine (not the Adam Moss Seven Days, but the original Dave Dellinger SevenDays), when I saw a woman standing on a street corner holding on tight to a striking, long-haired cat, and sobbing. I could not just pass them by, although at this stage in my life I was hardly an animal advocate. I didn’t know much. I was just a pet-less, art critic. Nevertheless, I stopped and asked her if she needed help. The woman thanked me profusely and said she had been standing there for an hour because her husband would not allow her back into her apartment until she got rid of the cat. Sounded like possible domestic violence to me. She was freezing, gripping the cat like a bag of groceries, which he did not like; the cat was growling. I stroked his head. He looked up at me and stopped growling.

“Please take him,” she begged me.

“I don’t know anything about cats,” I told her, asking, “What does he eat,” thereby showing off my ignorance about things feline, while debating what the hell to do. Then it began to rain. Hard. We were getting soaked when I took the grateful cat out of her arms—and she ran off. Just like that. I didn’t get the cat’s name, let alone hers.

I popped into a cab with the cat. I love NYC.

I had never seen such a beautiful cat. His grey mask looked painted on his face and he became Piet that same night. We bonded. He was all mine, following me like a shadow, purring like an instrument, keeping himself as clean as a white porcelain dish. He even killed off the mice in my loft and chased water bugs until they disappeared back down the drains. I looked forward to seeing Piet every day after work. He slept in the crook of my neck, as cats do. Piet was a classic cat, my first, and I loved him.

A few months later I met Peter.

It wasn’t Peter’s fault, exactly, not that he’s a cat person by any stretch of the imagination. But Piet did not like Peter from day one. When he began spending the night, Piet’s mission was to end my new relationship. Somehow, he knew when Peter was coming up in the elevator (ask Temple Grandin how that happens), and he would hide somewhere in the loft when Peter entered. Then, Piet would surprise attack. Peter’s back and legs were striped. Once, when Peter bent over to tie a sneaker, Piet jumped him, plunging all four claws into his back. I did feel badly. I had not seen this side of Piet, but I believed he would get over himself and just stop this horrendous behavior. Unfortunately, week by week, things only got worse. He soon began attacking me, but never with his nails out. Then, he started to attack anyone who entered his space. Piet became “Son of Sam” who emerged the same year.

I couldn’t exactly give him away, I explained to Peter. Who would want a serial-attack cat? I called the ASPCA. They explained they could not put him up for adoption; they already had too many nice cats.

Peter did not come over much, which was ok. He had his own apartment and I went there to visit. This suited me, but Piet wasn’t happy with any of this. I began to see why his previous owner was locked out of her apartment. And I didn’t have her name or number to give her a call and get some advice. In the 1970’s, people weren’t drugging their cats or bringing in cat trainers. At least, not people I knew. I would later make it my business to know these potential remedies.

Peter quietly researched shelters and rescues and found a “no-kill” cat rescue in Westchester County. I called reluctantly. I did not want to give up on Piet, but I wanted Peter, too. I was miserable. The woman on the phone said she’d take Piet. All I had to do was make a contribution for his care.

A week later, we were driving to Westchester and Peter was trying to convince me to give the woman a fake name and phone number. He was certain Piet would come bouncing right back to us for the rest of his life.

We found the place and pulled into the driveway of a suburban house. I carried Piet, in a carrier, into the kitchen, which was spacious and filled with built in cat cages. I don’t even remember the name of the place or I would pitch it. It was clean; the woman was quite nice and clearly a cat lover trying to do the right thing. The place was not over-crowded. She took one look at Piet and, like everyone else, marveled at his looks.

Then she saw his nails, “Let me cut them,” she said. “No!” I shrieked. “That’s not a good thing to do right away.” But she insisted. Knowing what to expect, Peter bolted for the door, while she opened the carrier, grabbed the beast and before she could even get her clippers out, Piet shredded her arm. Blood dripping, she turned to us and said, “I’ll get his nails later.”

It was the last time I saw Piet. For about five years, I received a Christmas card from the rescue with a cheerful note that said, “Piet is still with us!” I would send a small check. Then the notes stopped coming.

I regret that I never found out what happened to Piet. I surprise myself by thinking of him often. But I’ll never forgive Peter for making me do the right thing.