The House of Schrödinger’s Cats
written by: Leon Shousterman
Erwin came to me as an inheritance from my late aunt, a part of the interior of an old three-story mansion in a suburb of Vienna. More precisely, I didn’t inherit the cat himself but rather a large oak chest with bold red letters scrawled diagonally across the lid: “Das Experiment!” Attached to the chest was a note explaining that, for scientific purposes, my aunt’s beloved cat, Erwin, had been locked inside.
It is worth mentioning that my departed aunt, Amalia, was the biological granddaughter of the famous physicist Erwin Schrödinger — the same Schrödinger who once proposed the thought experiment involving a cat. The life of the cat trapped inside a box depended on the quantum state of a single atomic nucleus. According to the principles of quantum mechanics, the nucleus existed in a “superposition” of all possible states, meaning it was both decayed and intact at the same time. Consequently, the unfortunate cat was also in a “superposition” between existence and non-existence. He was both alive and dead or, if you prefer, neither alive nor dead. Opening the box would collapse this superposition, forcing the system into one definite state — whereupon the observer would, with a certain probability, find either a living cat or, with equal probability, a regrettably deceased one. It should be emphasized that Erwin Schrödinger himself never carried out this rather grim experiment in practice — he merely theorized about it.
Amalia adored her illustrious grandfather and even attempted to study quantum theory to better converse with him on his favorite topics. After the great physicist’s passing, his devoted granddaughter dedicated her life to preserving his legacy.
That’s when the idea struck her — to conduct Schrödinger’s experiment in reality. And who better to play the starring role than her beloved cat, named Erwin in honor of the scientist? However, when the moment of truth arrived and it was time to open the box, my aunt was overcome with doubt. Amalia knew that observing a quantum system destroys the superposition, forcing it to collapse into one of its possible states. As long as the box remained sealed, the cat was simultaneously alive and dead. The thought of finding Erwin lifeless was too much for her to bear, so she kept postponing the box’s opening — right up until her own demise. Amalia’s will instructed her heirs to complete the experiment. Since the mansion and all its contents passed to me, so did this honorable duty.
Upon taking possession of my inheritance, I embarked on a full-scale renovation of the house, postponing the scientific portion of my duties for a more convenient time. The workers I hired kept shifting Erwin’s prison from room to room along with the other furniture, until one day they placed it on the top-floor balcony. One evening, the laborers decided to clear out accumulated debris by tossing it straight off the balcony. In the ensuing commotion, the chest was mistakenly hurled down as well, shattering upon impact with the concrete courtyard below. The next morning, I found only splintered oak planks — no trace of the cat. Neither alive nor dead.
Naturally, I was saddened by the unceremonious end of my aunt’s scientific endeavor. On the other hand, I was relieved: the prospect of being the first to observe Erwin’s mortal remains, sacrificed for the sake of quantum mechanics, held no appeal. However, Amalia’s notes made one thing clear: as long as no observation had been made, the cat-nucleus system remained in all possible states simultaneously. Therefore, there was still a chance that I might see Erwin alive and well.
Alas! Due to the unforeseen accident, the fate of the valiant feline remained uncertain. Perhaps he had been alive all along and had simply bolted from his confinement, eager to put distance between himself and the cursed experiment. Or perhaps he had long since perished, and his decayed remains had been carried off by stray dogs. Either way, I deemed it fitting to bow my head in remembrance before returning to my daily concerns.
The next morning, I was awakened by loud meowing. Blinking in disbelief, I discovered a scrawny ginger cat perched on my bedside table. “Erwin?” I asked, stunned, instinctively reaching out to touch the visitor. But before my hand could graze his fur, the cat vanished as if he had never been there. Baffled, I sat up and scanned the room, but there was no sign of an animal. Convinced I had imagined the whole thing, I was about to return to bed when the ginger figure instantly reappeared in the opposite corner.
This time, I managed to touch him and confirm his tangible reality. Fearing he might vanish again, I dashed to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of cream. Erwin, evidently famished after years inside the box, lapped it up almost instantly. Then, purring in satisfaction, he disappeared.
After some reflection, I arrived at the only plausible explanation: the catastrophic fall of the experimental box had deprived anyone of the opportunity to observe the quantum system, which still existed in superposition. The atomic nucleus was now God-knows-where, undoubtedly still in all possible states at once. Consequently, so was Erwin, who remained entangled with it in the quantum system. This meant that Erwin simultaneously (albeit with varying probabilities) existed in all locations where a house cat of his size could conceivably be! It was even likely that I would occasionally witness multiple copies of him at the same time. Of course, there was also a probability that he simply did not exist at all.
By the next morning, I realized the full complexity of my predicament. The refrigerator door, for instance, can be in one of two states: open or closed. No matter how meticulously I checked to ensure it was shut, there always remained a nonzero probability that it was slightly ajar. Consequently, Erwin could, with some probability, materialize inside — and, sooner or later, he inevitably did. This harsh truth became evident when he appeared inside the fridge and devoured all my food. Years of starvation had left him with a ravenous appetite.
Before long, I discovered that there was not a single place in the house where Erwin could not suddenly manifest. He materialized in my armchair just as I was about to sit down, leapt — boiling mad — from the soup pot as I was cooking, and landed on my back in the shower just as I was rinsing off.
Erwin’s ability to appear anywhere earned him great favor among the local female cats, who were clearly enthralled by such an elusive suitor. However, their admiration was counterbalanced by their fury when he disappeared at the most inopportune moments. Soon, angry mobs of abandoned feline lovers began gathering beneath my window, demanding justice.
Evidently, Erwin managed to reconcile with some of them, for before long, I started spotting ginger kittens — miniature copies of their father — prowling the neighborhood. Naturally, they had inherited his peculiar properties. After all, they, too, had been born and existed only with a certain probability, inhabiting a superposition of all possible states just like their progenitor.
Thus, the lineage of Schrödinger’s cats was born. Over time, their quantum presence filled the entire district. I took their omnipresence in stride, as befitted the heir of a great scientist. My neighbors, however, were far less accepting. They nervously protested the new state of affairs and, blaming me for their woes, bombarded the mayor’s office with demands for action against me and my “pets.”
Unable to repeal the laws of quantum mechanics, the authorities resorted to those within their jurisdiction — they raised my municipal taxes on the grounds that I was running a cat shelter. At first, I assumed that, like everything related to Erwin and his offspring, the tax would only be charged with a certain probability — after all, among the possible states of Schrödinger’s cats was nonexistence. But to my surprise, the sum was deducted from my account with perfect regularity every month. I never once observed an exception.
As Benjamin Franklin once remarked, only two things in this world are certain: death and taxes. My experience with Erwin suggests that the famous American was only half right.
- The House of Schrödinger’s Cats - May 23, 2025
