A Hamster on Thermodynamics

At around age 10, I was given a hamster. The thing was very cute and soft and I really enjoyed watching it run in its little exercise wheel. Once the novelty had passed, I devised further adventures for the furry creature. We got it an exercise ball and it was very entertaining to watch it roll around the house, despite it spending more time stuck somewhere than actually rolling. One summer afternoon, I came up with a project of significant magnitude: I would build it a huge maze.

I went to work on graph paper, drawing a maze that I deemed sufficiently challenging for the critter to be entertaining for the audience yet not so intricate that it would completely discourage it. Once pleased with the result, I pitched the idea to my dad. I was extremely excited, expounding at length on how many hours of fun would be had watching the hamster run around in the maze, keeping time and comparing results to properly chart records. Dad was immediately on board and asked me for a precise list of all the wood pieces and other supplies I would need and their respective dimensions. I handed it to him on the spot: it was the next sheet under my scale drawing.

The final product measured about 5 feet by 4 feet. I had painstakingly hot glued all the pieces myself, my dad not wanting to let me near nails or screws. The resulting contraption was a bit wobbly but its only challenger weighed a hundred grams, so I considered it satisfactory and suitable for the experiment. The moment of truth had arrived: the entire family solemnly gathered around my work. An unsuspecting Buttercup in one hand, food kibbles in the other, I leaned and deposited the reward at the end of the maze, making sure the furry creature had carefully watched the process. I then carried her to the front and delicately placed her at the entrance. With all eyes on the hamster, the silent air was thick with anticipation.

Buttercup did absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. She just sat there, her tiny ribcage moving rapidly to the rhythm of her breathing, sole evidence of her aliveness. My brother exploded in laughter. My parents, being grown ups, were able to control themselves better... slightly. Frustrated, I gently nudged the hamster forward. Still nothing. I nudged a little harder towards the first wall in hopes of forcing her to make a choice, but instead she started scaling said wall which was precisely 10 centimeters high: shorter than the beast herself. That time, the crowd was not so nice.

Humiliated, I mumbled that I would need a sheet of clear plastic to cover the maze. Dad, an amused twinkle in his eye, agreed that it was indeed necessary for the next attempt. The next day, the Plexiglas was glued to the maze and Buttercup given her second shot.

She did absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. Again. I nudged her around the first bend but my arm could twist no further. I obstinately kept my eyes on her, knowing that she would have to move eventually. She did, after what seemed like an eternity. She sat up and sniffed the air. My heart swelled with optimism. Then she started to groom.

About 6 years later in physics class, we were studying the second law of thermodynamics. I didn't quite get it, to be honest, but the teacher said something about all closed systems leaning towards minimum energy if left alone to reach equilibrium. I immediately recognized how this principle applied to humans, and also hamsters.

There was so much to learn from that experiment. Later on, as a socially integrated working individual, I tested a few of my derived hypotheses on humans, mostly co-workers, and here are my conclusions. First, as a general rule, people choose the status quo, even when they know that pretty much any change to their situation would be an improvement. Change is hard. It requires energy, and we like the minimum energy bit of thermodynamics. Secondly, if pushed, people will likely go in the direction towards which they were pushed. This was surprising to me initially. I had suspected that my subjects would choose the action requiring the least physical energy, but in that I was wrong. People, just as Buttercup had done, choose the option requiring the least mental energy, which is to do as directed, never questioning whether it is the right thing to do, or even the easier thing to do. Mental minimum enthalpy apparently trumps its physical equivalent. This has proven to be very valuable information in my life, for I have often been the one pushed, and also occasionally the one pushing.

Today, my strongest feeling about this story is gratitude. My parents knew Buttercup would never run around the maze like a trained lab rat. They could have told me this, saving me hours of futile work and a healthy dose of public humiliation, but they didn't. They chose instead to let an inquisitive young mind go through the motions to discover for herself, knowing that this is how lessons are truly learned, that this is what creates lasting memories from which we draw renewed wisdom through a point of view continually altered as we age. Thanks, mom and dad.