J. A. Springs - Wrangler of Words

Early Sunday Morning, I woke, not because I had something to do…

When I woke up late, I asked myself, Can my day get any worse? It was meant to be rhetorical.

I came down to my studio to find my cat, Emma, sitting in my favorite chair. I stared at her sternly, hoping she’d get the message and move without me having to say anything.

Minutes passed.

“You have an attitude,” I muttered.

She cocked her head. “Wait—I have an attitude? I’m just being me.”

I froze. I wasn’t sure whether to be surprised by what she said or by the fact that she spoke at all. “I find your behavior offensive,” I said.

She cocked her head the other way. “You find it offensive? I find it funny. That’s why I’m happier than you.”

My mouth dropped open. I closed it with my hand. After a moment, I decided to walk away—especially after noticing my fist was balled up and my eye had started twitching.

I honestly wondered why I kept cats at that point. Then I remembered. I liked the four-legged, purring, poop machines… most of the time.

I resigned myself to the truth: if God wanted me to have a cat, then by all means, I would get me two.

That thought was triggered when I tripped over Milo on my way out of the studio. I righted myself quickly and walked past him slowly, glancing over my shoulder.

He turned to Emma and said casually, “Breaking news: common sense is now an endangered species. Stupidity has taken over the world, and unfortunately there is no known cure.”

I paused.

I wasn’t sure if it was just me—or if my cats had decided they were done pretending not to judge me today.

Hmmm.

Guess I’ll just go to the office and sulk alone while I write the book I was working on.

I suspected my cats had it in for me today as soon as I sat down. I hadn’t woken to an alarm clock—I woke to fur up my nose and my feet far too damn hot thanks to a furry heater parked on them.

Neither of them moved when I made it painfully obvious I wanted out of the tangled bedsheets.

Eventually, both cats followed me into the office and meowed at me in chorus, as if I owed them something. I raised a finger to my lips.

“Shhh. My coffee and I are having a moment. I’ll deal with you later.”

Sometimes I think to myself, Stop writing and get stuff done!

Then I laugh and move the mouse to start a new page.

The cats chased the cursor. When that failed to get my attention, they posted up on the desktop—right between me, the keyboard, and the monitor.

I didn’t fight them. I waited.

They eventually got bored of watching me sip coffee—no small feat, considering the mug was down to its last sip and ice-cold by the time they decided something else in the house deserved their attention.

I sighed, thinking, Cats make me happy. Humans make my head hurt.

I don’t like stupid people. That doesn’t mean I’m saying we should get rid of them. No. I’m thinking of something much simpler—like removing all the warning labels and letting the problem sort itself out.

I thought about how my cats treat visitors. As if they’re saying:

If you don’t like cat hair, stay off my sofa. He likes me more than he likes most humans. He loves me. He’s only friends with you. To you, I’m the cat. Here, I’m the baby.

You know. Normal stuff.

Honestly, I don’t mind the selfish company. I’ve always got an excuse to be late. I can just say, “Sorry I’m late—my cat was laying on me.”

That usually solves everything, as far as I’m concerned.

A moment later, I heard the pounding of eight feet galloping through the house. They flashed past the doorway like they were either late to a party or running as if their hair were on fire. I couldn’t decide which.

All I knew for certain was that Milo always ran first—and Emma always followed. I assumed she was teaching him a lesson.

I realized something then: never argue with a short girl who has an “A” in her name. That letter stands for Anger issues, Attitude, and Always right.

By that point, I was on my third cup of coffee and had managed to write an impressive total of four words I didn’t immediately erase.

God knew I needed love, so He sent me cats. I suppose He also figured my life was too quiet and I was getting too much done.

I feel like the crazy cat guy now. Or maybe just crazy—without the cat part afterward.

I looked back at the sentence I’d started earlier: Life is like soup. And I…

What followed were those four words I hadn’t erased yet.

…guess I’m the fork.

My joy in life is doubled and each has four legs and a tail.

I woke up this morning and decided to write 800+ words of nonsense without reason at all. :)

Excerpt from Essays in Systems and Being (2025)

Why Are Cats Assholes?: A Query into Understanding Feline Behavior

J. A. Springs Independent Author & Researcher Writing for the World Press Unaffiliated with Academic Institution

Abstract

Feline behavior has long been a source of human frustration and fascination. Cat owners frequently describe their companions as aloof, unpredictable, or even antagonistic. This inquiry argues that what is interpreted as “asshole” behavior in cats reflects human discomfort with autonomy and indifference rather than evidence of feline spite.

1. Introduction: The Perception of Malice

Humans, when confronted with behavior that resists interpretation, invent narratives to reconcile dissonance. Cats disregard commands, reject affection, and maintain an unnerving sense of independence. To human observers conditioned toward reciprocity, such indifference feels personal. The term “asshole,” therefore, functions as an ethological descriptor—a linguistic defense against perceived rejection.

2. Anthropomorphism and Projection

Research in comparative cognition suggests that humans consistently over-ascribe agency and intention to non-human animals (Epley, Waytz, & Cacioppo, 2007; de Waal, 2016). The cat’s disinterest, when viewed through this lens, becomes a mirror for human expectation. We interpret feline autonomy through social frameworks meant for cooperative species. When cats fail to conform to those expectations, we infer defiance. Yet, as Dennett (1987) notes in his theory of the intentional stance, the appearance of intention need not correspond to any internal state. The so-called “asshole cat” is, in reality, an indifferent observer.

But why do humans insist on doing this?

Because they can.

3. Conclusion

Cats are not assholes. They are participants in a separate ontology—one that resists moral mapping. Their behavior becomes “assholery” only when refracted through human expectation. The problem, therefore, is not feline temperament but with owners of cats. Cats aren’t assholes, so stop projecting.

Keywords: feline behavior, anthropomorphism, projection, intentional stance, human–animal perception

Author’s Note:

This paper was written during a period of prolonged feline observation and mild existential reflection. Any resemblance between the described behavior and the author’s own is purely correlative.

References

Dennett, D. C. (1987). The intentional stance. MIT Press.

Epley, N., Waytz, A., & Cacioppo, J. T. (2007). On seeing human: A three-factor theory of anthropomorphism.

Psychological Review, 114(4), 864–886. https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-295X.114.4.864

de Waal, F. (2016). Are we smart enough to know how smart animals are? W. W. Norton & Company.

Postscript: On the Origin of This Inquiry

The idea for this essay came about entirely by accident. I was editing this very book when I left my office to get Tylenol from the upstairs bathroom. One of my cats—who had been sleeping quietly nearby—followed me up the stairs, laid down and waited in the doorway while I got the medicine, and then followed me back down to the office, returning to the same chair to sleep again. The whole errand lasted less than a minute.

For reasons I can’t entirely justify, I found the gesture both endearing and slightly irritating. I remember thinking, I didn’t need an escort to take a pill. And then, almost instantly, I began analyzing the behavior—constructing theories about affection, attachment, and the absurdity of supervision from a creature that ignored me half the day until I got ready to do something I needed to focus on.

That moment was when I realized I was doing it again—applying systems thinking to a cat. The essay that followed was written as a reminder to myself to let some things simply exist without needing to be explained. It’s both a parody of analysis and a confession of the inability to stop analyzing.

Included here without revision. It seemed fitting that the final word on systems and being would come from a cat. No cats were harmed in the creation of this essay.

Addendum:

They still do it, by the way. Every time. Philosophically infuriating—I still think my cats can be assholes at times. Why do you wait until right after I perfectly clean your litter box to take a shit. As if you'd been holding it in all day just so I could give you fresh litter in which to lay a turd.