Cats and physics

A few days ago, it occurred to me that--being a cat lover and owner--had I been the observer of Schrödinger's cat, the cat would have come out alive, because if particles can influence outcomes, surely the particles that are involved in forming my thought processes would influence the collapse of different potentials into the cat being alive rather than dead from whatever nastiness was in that box.

That's my reasoning, anyway, even if it does sound a bit tin-foil-hat.

I posted this on Facebook. A friend responded that regardless, Schrödinger should not own cats. I agree. And despite the fact that Einstein had some good things to say about cats, that he would propose--in the course of his correspondence with Schrödinger--putting an explosive in that box along with the cat makes me think that he might not have been someone in which to put full confidence vis a vis cat care.

And then I remembered a while back that I had Facebook-posted that yet another physicist--Sir Isaac Newton--was certainly a cat lover, because he had invented the cat door not only for his cat, but another little one especially for her kittens. Clearly this scientist was one who had the utmost consideration for felines.



Newman: "Is asleep. Go away."

Not long ago, my husband--an engineer--commented that was remarkable how our cat, Newman, has such perfect instinctive balance in whatever he does.

What is it with science-types and cats? While I am sure there are dog lovers amongst science folk, there seems to have been special attention paid to cats by scientists. Perhaps it is a cat's instinctive balance that brings to it some scientific focus. There is, of course, something mathematical about balance, and an acute awareness of physics would eventually bring a curious mind to wonder: what is it about cats that make them do what they do?

Of course, I did an internet search to find out if anyone has looked into this, and sure enough, some MIT scientists have observed cats (specifically, one scientist's house cat, Cutta Cutta) lapping up water and the physics involved in it.

Which of course gave rise to all sorts of comments and questions on the above blog regarding whether the roughness of the cat's tongue helps it lap up water (it's the curl in the tongue as well as timing) in the unique way it does, and how it evolved in such a way to have such measurably precise movements.

And while all this scientific speculation is going on about Dr. Stocker's cat, I can imagine Cutta Cutta's attitude would be something akin to this:

With a corollary of: "FOOD. NOW."

Cat Wrasslin'

So I was in the urgent care clinic today because I sprained my wrist.  After waiting there for a while,  the triage nurse calls me in and got my history:  "So, what happened?  Did you fall?"  Her hands are poised over the computer keyboard, ready to enter the information.

"No," I say, and paused trying to figure out how to describe what happened.  "See, my cat was making this upchuck noise, and I thought I could get him off the rug onto the vinyl floor so that he would barf there instead, because you know how hard it is to get vomit off rugs, right? Except he's really heavy, about 17 lbs--kind of a cross between a Maine Coon cat and a Norwegian Forest cat.  So I picked him up, but he struggles away and decides to puke on the stairs instead, which are also rug-covered, and I thought, no, that's even worse.  So I picked him up again to move him away, and my foot slipped and he wriggles again, twisting my hand, and he barfed half on the stairs and half on the vinyl landing."

The nurse looks at me for a moment and began typing.  "You were wrestling with your cat," she  says as she types.

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way, " I say.  "I was just trying to pick him up--"

A medical assistant pokes her head into the room.  "Dr. Pal is ready."

The nurse waves me away, and I follow the assistant to the exam room.  Dr. Pal comes in soon after, a tidy and professional-looking man whose name tag reads "Dinesh Pal, MD."  From India, I imagine, educated in the U.S.  He carefully shakes my left hand (as my right is not up to any kind of shaking), and goes to the computer.  His brows raise.  "You are here because you were wrestling with your cat?"

"No, no," I say.  "See, he was about to vomit on the rug, and I wanted him not to do that, and so I tried to move him as quickly as I could, except he's a really big cat..."  I trail off, watching his grin grow wider.

"I see," he says, but I'm not entirely sure he does.  "Let me look at your hand."  He pokes and prods it, eliciting more than a few "Ows!" from me.  "It's probably sprained, but let's take an x-ray of it."  Dr. Pal calls for the nurse again, who guides me to a very harried x-ray technician, who it seems will be working for 12 long hours because all the rest of the techs are either out sick or on other jobs.

I arrive back to see Dr. Pal again afterwards, and he nods his head over the x-rays.  "Yes, it's only a sprain, no break. Ice it, keep it elevated, take the anti-inflammatories, and the nurse will fit you with a brace.  And no more wrestling with your cat!" he says, chuckling and shaking his finger at me.

I sigh.  "Right, thanks, doctor," I say, and leave the exam room to the sound of his continued chuckling.

I enter the waiting room and collect my mom, who is waiting for me.  "I am probably the only person in the world who has a medical record that says she wrestles cats," I say to her.

"So you should not do it again," she says, no sympathy in her voice.

"Mom, I didn't wrestle my cat!  I just didn't want him to puke--"  I let out another sigh.  "Never mind.  Let's go shopping."

She nods.  "Much better than wrestling cats."

Argh.  So now I'm learning to type with my left hand.  Wish me luck.