Short Story / Schroedinger's Cat

Schroedinger’s Cat

I hate that damn box. Perhaps hate is too strong a word, my kind is above that sort of ugly feeling. But still, there it is. I spend most afternoons running away from the doctor, and that damnable box. It goes something like this: the doctor comes into the room, where I’m more often than not lying in that lovely warm patch on the carpet near the window. He looks right at me, and puts the box down on the floor. I see it and run. He chases me. I run some more. He sighs, goes to the kitchen, where I hear the odd ‘bang’, and the rattle of a large hand rummaging in a drawer. A few moments later, and he returns with an open tin of tuna. Another moment after that and I’m in the box. Again. Lamentably, our kind are still held prisoner by our base needs, no matter how hard we try to convince ourselves that we have risen above it.

We then descend the stairs to the lab, where the doctor starts, for what seems like the millionth time, droning on and on about his blessed radioactivity. It’s a religion to him. Hail be to the most sacred atom. All very dull if you ask me. Science, religion, philosophy, I have no need of any such crutch, no matter how cleverly disguised. I recall one time, the doctor’s rival Albert (they try to act all friendly with each other, but I hear the doctor’s comments about Albert when he isn’t within earshot) came over, just for a friendly visit, tea and a bit of a natter, when the doctor gets it into his head to do the box thing again. Only this time, once we’re all in the lab, he keeps opening and closing the lid on the box, sometimes really slowly, sometimes really fast. Every so often he would stick a finger in and poke me. Not very hard, but enough to cause my left upper lip to curl back instinctively. (Later in the year, after a particularly late night out in the yard, and a piece of bad liver, he poked just a little bit too hard for my mood, and from then on used a pencil to do the poking.) And sometimes he would open the box just a crack and pretend not to be looking in, when in fact I could see that he was desperate to see that something, anything, had happened. (I once caught Albert doing something similar with the refrigerator, opening and closing the door to see if he could open the door before the light went on. He never saw me watching him, and as far as I know he never did it, what with that light being so fast and all, but I heard he later wrote a paper about it, so I guess it must have been worth it.) One time, when I was in a rather evil mood, I played dead. The commotion that stunt caused was worth it though, Erwin stopped putting me in boxes for a good period of time.

Just as a matter of interest, the box bore fruit as well. Years later, after the arguments and tears, the doctor won accolade. But there was, however, a rather unpleasant side effect. The boxes. All shapes and sizes, some with cats in, some empty, a couple with small crystals, quite tedious really. And, not surprisingly, a lot of the dreary things had been made by the hand, by the “friends” who were giving the gift. Made. By. Hand. Badly. People thought it was funny, that they were being original, “I know, let’s give Erwin and Anny a box! With a cat in, do you see? It’ll be so funny, they’ll love it and oh how we’ll laugh!” Yes, oh what fun. The doctor and Anny would smile, force a laugh and well-practised gestures which conveyed the deep sense of joy at receiving such a wonderful gift, as well as the sheer and utter surprise at the very idea. They would make the gift giver feel good about themselves for the politely required length of time, then store the box with all the other “original” presents, to be dragged out whenever the giver was over for a visit. Oh sure, I used to find them… amusing. Some of them were quite practical actually. I would sleep in them. Or just sit in and think, contemplate, they were very good for that, quiet, all sound muffled by the sides and roof. But then Anny got the camera, and that was the end of that. There are now hundreds of pictures, me in a box, me beside a box, me looking up out of a box, very very dull. Me, mid jump out of a box, frozen in time, recorded for posterity. Now let me ask you something: who in their right mind is going to want to pour over pictures of me in boxes a hundred years from now? Who? Honestly.

So here I am, in the box, the doctor opening and closing the lid, when Albert says “I really don’t understand Erwin. The cat is still there, alive. You showed me, you poked it. What exactly are you trying to prove?” The doctor stopped and muttered something about me existing in two states (just for the record, I’ve Never even thought about visiting the Americas, so what that had to do with anything at this point I’m unclear on), and something about my being dead and alive at the same time. I didn’t know what he was going on about, nor did I care much. I did know, however, because while they were arguing, they weren’t paying attention to my state any longer, and this opportunity could not be missed. Before the argument had escalated to rude hand gestures and snide remarks about the other’s intellect, I had escaped from my theoretical prison and had bolted halfway up the stairs. I saw the doctor look at Albert and shrug. “Pint?” he said. “Sure,” Albert replied. As they trudged up the stairs after me, I heard Albert again, “You know Erwin, you really should consider getting a dog.”

You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.