MESSENGER OF THE DOGS

A few years back, I had the good fortune, or so it seemed at the time, to take up a position in the household of the eminent scientist, Professor Erwin Schrodinger, he of the eponymous equation. If I had had a job title, it would have been something like messenger, for I spent most of my days running errands around Graz, delivering books and journals and sending telegrams to academics and scientists in faraway places such as Princeton, Oxford and Berlin. After luncheon, I would take the professor’s dog – an energetic terrier - for a walk in the forests of the Alpine foothills. As a country boy myself, this distraction was a delight. The dog, Franz, would eagerly follow his sensitive nose off into the undergrowth, whilst I would stride briskly through the trees considering the great problems of philosophy, religion and science, stopping occasionally to examine a new flower or set of animal tracks. To bring Franz back to heel, a sharp blow on my whistle was usually sufficient.

One late autumn afternoon, Franz and I set off as usual. Snow was imminent; the air crackled with anticipation. The pale sun seemed more distant than it had ever been as two tiny figures – a man and a dog - passed into the vast forest. Franz disappeared as normal, following the trail of a squirrel or another woodland creature. I, for my part, was busy contemplating the number of angels that could dance on a pinhead, and wondering if this figure could be increased if the participants agreed to keep their wings folded while dancing – a style, I understand, favoured by the Irish. The threat of snow had become a reality, and within minutes the first gentle flakes had been replace by clumps. I blew my whistle with the intention of terminating our expedition early, but although I could hear Franz barking in the distance, he evidently couldn’t hear my summons blown into the prevailing wind. I put the cold whistle to my cold lips again, but its shrill note was drowned out, firstly by the creaking and groaning of limbs of ancient timber, and then by the terrifying crashing of twig on twig, branch on branch, trunk on trunk as an elderly statesman of the forest collapsed among its younger neighbours. Who knows why it fell there and then – perhaps its roots had been starved of moisture by young, greedy interlopers and the weight of snow had sealed its fate. Anyway, a tree had fallen in the forest and somebody had been there to hear it – the philosophers could rest in their wood-panelled studies for now.

I went to examine the fallen giant, whose uppermost branches had ended up some thirty metres from me. As I approached, I became aware of a high-pitched whining from beneath the leaves and branches that had only recently been part of the forest’s canopy, but now lay on the forest floor covered with an ever-thickening rug of white. As my hands pulled and tugged at the bent and broken boughs, the whimpering died away to nothing and the forest was silent again. I could sense that my task was futile and that moving the branches I needed to move would require the strength of twenty men.

I returned to the city a dishevelled, downcast shadow of a man. Having explained the sad history of my expedition to the staff downstairs, I was ushered into the presence of the great scientist to explain the course of events. This was actually the first time I’d met him since our initial interview.

‘Get on with it, young fellow’, he said, his face grave and lined.

I began my story, and continued up to the point where the massive tree began to plummet towards the earth.

‘And Franz; is he dead?’ He looked at me over his spectacles.

‘Well, sir,’ I replied. ‘He may be alive or he may be dead; in a way, he may be both.’ I was astonished by the ridiculousness of my reply even as the words crawled out of my mouth.

‘So, you are suggesting that the probability curve has not yet collapsed’ he said. ‘Go on, go on.’

By this point in my narrative, the professor has grabbed a notebook and was scribbling furiously.

‘Well yes, I suppose so.’

‘Thank you, young man. That will be all. You are, of course, dismissed. Please collect your belongings.’

In the time since I left Graz, I have had no contact with the household, although I understand that Professor Schrodinger has lately acquired a cat.