Erwin Schrödinger had, in fact, a cat;
His name was Milton, and he was a stray. 
That is, he had no home but went his way
From house to house. By kitchen door he sat
And savored what was given him; so that
In fact he wasn’t Erwin’s cat. But say
We contemplate the case another way
And ask about the dish upon the mat.
On what condition does one pour the cream?
When one perceives the cat? Or does one leave
Some scraps anticipating he’ll be seen?
Everyone who left a dish believed
He’d reappear. Unknowable, the plan 
That justifies the ways of cats to man.