2006
Now that a century has passed, the truth can be told. You’ve all heard about Pavlov’s Dog. In 1903 Russian scientist Ivan Pavlov delivered a paper to the International Medical Congress in Madrid entitled “The Experimental Psychology and Psychopathology of Animals” which dealt with conditioned reflexes. Two years later Pavlov conducted experiments proving that an external agent could create an artificial conditioned reflex. The gist of the experiment was that dogs naturally salivated when they saw food and were eating it. By ringing a bell whenever they saw their food, Pavlov was eventually able to stimulate the dogs’ salivary glands by ringing the bell even when their food was not present.
The dog’s name, incidentally and fittingly, was Renfield, named for the powerless character in the Bram Stoker novel “Dracula” who had fallen under the spell of the vampire count and was compelled to carry out his master’s bloodthirsty commands. “Dracula” was Ivan Pavlov’s favorite book, and he liked to dress up as Dr. Van Helsing when he attended the costume balls thrown by the Romanovs in St. Petersburg.
Yes, the experiments with Pavlov’s Dog were a huge success. But how many of you have ever heard of Pavlov’s Cat? No one? Well, I’m not surprised, because most scientists prefer not to publicize their failures. Ivan Pavlov, made famous by his dog Renfield, did not want the world to know of his failures to artificially condition the reflexes of his cat. Not until long after his death, when he was beyond ridicule.
I will spare you the details until later, but I have come into possession of those long hidden papers documenting the failed experiments with Pavlov’s Cat. Pavlov gave those experiments his greatest efforts, citing as inspiration the words of the great American inventor, Thomas Edison, who once said: “If I find ten thousand ways something won’t work, I haven’t failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is often a step forward.”
Well, Ivan Pavlov tried ten thousand different ways to train his cat. He tried twenty thousand ways. In fact, he documented 23,849 different experiments to train his cat before finally conceding failure. Pavlov, incidentally and fittingly, had named his cat Potemkin in honor of the Russian sailors on the battleship Potemkin, who revolted against the czar in 1905, the same year he began his experiments with his dog and cat. Well, the rebellion by the sailors was crushed. But nothing Pavlov tried could crush the rebellious and independent nature of his cat Potemkin, and in the end it was Pavlov’s spirit that was crushed. Oh, if you’re wondering how Pavlov could justify attending costume balls at the court of the czar while at the same time sympathizing with Russian revolutionaries, keep in mind that Pavlov, like most scientists, was apolitical. Besides, the caviar at court was simply to die for.
Anyway, Pavlov tried more than a thousand different experiments to get Potemkin to use the scratching post. Potemkin instead always scratched the furniture and shredded the drapes. The unmarred scratching post eventually became a hat rack.
Pavlov tried more than two thousand ways to train Potemkin to go outside for the night at 10 o’clock, when the good doctor went to bed. Potemkin always disappeared at 9:30, then magically reappeared at 11:30 to lick the great doctor’s eyelids until he woke from his slumber and put out the cat. Then, at 4:15 a.m., 45 minutes before the good doctor was scheduled to rise, Potemkin would cry outside the bedroom window until Pavlov got up and let the cat back in.
In another series of failed experiments, Pavlov spread sections of the newspaper all around the house. Potemkin would only sit on the page the good doctor was trying to read.
Pavlov had a huge room in his house with a stone floor. He would put Potemkin’s food bowl squarely in the middle of the floor, and the cat would dutifully eat his meals there. But whenever Potemkin wanted to throw up after eating, which was after almost every meal, instead of throwing up on the stone floor, which was easy to clean, Potemkin would dash to the parlor and throw up on the Persian carpet.
Pavlov made repeated attempts to cure Potemkin of his aloofness. But the only time the cat ever affectionately rubbed up against him or leaped into his lap was when Pavlov was wearing his favorite black velvet suit and Potemkin was shedding. It would take Pavlov’s wife, Seraphima, an hour to pick the white hairs off her husband’s suit with a pair of tweezers.
Pavlov made a careful study of Potemkin’s habits and documented in what areas of the house the cat liked to sleep at different times of the day. He learned that Potemkin had a daily routine that never varied, except on the day the cat was scheduled for his annual checkup at the veterinarian’s, when he could not be found at all.
Pavlov had trained his dog Renfield to fetch the newspaper and bring it into the house every morning. When he attempted to train Potemkin to do the same thing, the cat always returned with the headless corpse of a mouse or bird that he would drop on the floor next to the doctor’s easy chair.
In 1923 Ivan Pavlov finally gave up, closed the book on the Potemkin experiments, and ordered that the data not be examined for 75 years. In 1931 Seraphima Pavlov bought one of the first electric can openers, and every time she used it to open a can, the whirring would attract a salivating Potemkin to the kitchen, even when it wasn’t his mealtime. When the good doctor saw that, he became inconsolable. Ivan Pavlov died five years later of a broken heart.
How do I know all of this? Well, my wife and I unwittingly adopted one of Potemkin’s descendants from the animal shelter a few years ago, and among the papers we received attesting that Tikva had been neutered and was in good health, were the doctor’s handwritten journals regarding Pavlov’s Cat. Our Tikva is just as independent and rebellious as his ancestor, strictly adhering to his own agenda. Except, of course, when we’re using the can opener.