Each morning when I limp out of bed I am greeted by a clowder of cats – two adults and three kittens, probably 7 months or so – on the top step of my back porch depending on me for food and nothing else.

This isn’t how I had mapped the autumn of my life, but here we are.

Absent is Boots, Robeson County’s most handsome and famous cat, a tuxedo, and the star of two books, a few copies of which remain and are on sale. I am convinced Boots is not amused by their arrival and wonders about Paradise Lost. He is typically 20 or 30 yards away, staring with a look of disgust and waiting for the gauntlet to cede so he can make a dash inside.

I’ve learned a lot about cats since Boots’ arrival in July of 2018. They eat every time there is food to be eaten, sleep most of the day, and procreate if given the chance and are able. That is why they are the King of The Jungle.

I can deal with the eating and sleeping, but the procreation has me a bit nervous.

I have learned that cats are capable of affection, but it is rarely given and I am not sure it is sincere. I know that Boots will rub against my leg when I am preparing his food, which I suppose is his way of saying thanks. Each morning between 4 and 4:30 a.m. he jumps on my bed, walks along my right side and sticks his face against my cheek to alert me he is ready to patrol The Jungle. On a rare occasion he will jump on me and nestle for a nap on my belly, apparently the softest spot he can find.

The other cats suffer me at best, but they do bring me presents, dead lizards, birds, voles and other rodents, all of which died a tortuous death. Cats kill surely but slowly.

Juice, an orange tabby male, arrived about two years, and Oreo, a larger tuxedo who might be Boots’ ne’er-do-well dad, about a year ago. But things went off the rails about seven months ago when I was told there was a litter of kittens at the maintenance shed at Pinecrest Country Club, about 500 yards from my house.

About two weeks later Goldie, a female tabby, arrived with four kittens in tow – three calicos and a tabby. My gut told me that Juice fathered the tabby and Oreo the three calicos. Yes, a cat can have a single litter with multiple dads, and it pains me to share, but apparently Goldie is, as we said in high school, popular.

One of the calicos disappeared, and it’s a mystery as to whether it found a bigger sucker or entered the food chain at the wrong end. The other three kittens have stuck, each displaying a distinct personality.

Opal, the smallest calico, is friendly and forward, and will walk into the house without hesitation if given the chance. Jude, the slightly larger male tabby, was a bit standoffish, but now will permit a belly rub.

That leaves No Name, the other calico. It was assigned No Name not as an indication of status but because I have yet to determine its gender. It was only a week or so ago that I was able to touch it without a loss of blood.

Now as a board member of the Robeson County Humane Society, I want everyone to know that all except one of the cats have been either spayed or neutered, forcing a refinance of my home. (Vouchers are available at the humane society).

No Name is on deck and the urgency is growing.

Not knowing if No Name is a male or female, but knowing I preferred a male so if there were to be a problem, it would be someone else’s, I Googled and was relieved to learn that yes, male cats are typically larger than females; No Name is easily the largest of the litter.

Then my Google search was as follows: What are the chances a calico cat is a male? The answer: “Only one out of every 3,000 calico cats is male, according to a study by the College of Veterinary Medicine at the University of Missouri.” I learned that if No Name is essentially a unicorn, a male calico, he is sterile as male calicos cannot reproduce.

Oh (expletive deleted), I thought, knowing a single female cat can have as many as five litters a year. The math from there could freeze a calculator.

On Friday morning and with my second attempt, I got No Name by the scruff and she is now at Pembroke Veterinary in the good hands of Dr. Brooks, who dismissed my notion No Name might be a male. “I have never seen a male calico,” he said.

No Name will get a name, shots, dewormed and checked for ear mites.

I got three flesh wounds, peace of mind and the bill.