God damn you, Mr. Schrodinger.
I went outside for a smoke break, even though I promised myself I was done with cigarettes for the night. I found a cat asleep in the middle of the street behind my apartment. At first I thought it must be dead, or injured, but it was only asleep.
I considered it, briefly, and decided I ought to move it, to instigate movement toward a safer place. I walked up, hopped up and down next to it. It looked up at me and stared. I did not want to touch it, out of respect, so I tried growling at it and making menacing attack movements with my face and teeth. It did not appear concerned. Finally I stamped my food down next to its head repeatedly. It stood up, stared at my foot, and decided to walk away.
I went to find a place to sit; the cat wandered toward me out of curiosity, examined my hand, then sat down on the sidewalk with its back to me. A minute or so later a truck drove past, just where the cat had been sleeping. It made a loud sound but the cat did not exhibit a reaction. I wondered if it would have moved out of the way, if it would have woken up and moved out of the way. There is no way to know for certain.
I stared at it for a while, at this cat who was being a cat, knowing that my intervention was perhaps the only reason it was still capable of doing so at this point in time. I made note of the seconds, each moment of catness which may or may not have been my responsibility. But for all of my examination I could see nothing in the cat but its biology, the manifestation of billions of years of clumsy universe.
I did not feel as though I had made a difference.
I considered it, briefly, and decided I ought to move it, to instigate movement toward a safer place. I walked up, hopped up and down next to it. It looked up at me and stared. I did not want to touch it, out of respect, so I tried growling at it and making menacing attack movements with my face and teeth. It did not appear concerned. Finally I stamped my food down next to its head repeatedly. It stood up, stared at my foot, and decided to walk away.
I went to find a place to sit; the cat wandered toward me out of curiosity, examined my hand, then sat down on the sidewalk with its back to me. A minute or so later a truck drove past, just where the cat had been sleeping. It made a loud sound but the cat did not exhibit a reaction. I wondered if it would have moved out of the way, if it would have woken up and moved out of the way. There is no way to know for certain.
I stared at it for a while, at this cat who was being a cat, knowing that my intervention was perhaps the only reason it was still capable of doing so at this point in time. I made note of the seconds, each moment of catness which may or may not have been my responsibility. But for all of my examination I could see nothing in the cat but its biology, the manifestation of billions of years of clumsy universe.
I did not feel as though I had made a difference.