Six-toed cats vs. the U.S. Department of Ag
By Gina Spadafori
July 29, 2007

We’ve linked to stories about this fight before, but for the life of me I just don’t understand why the U.S. Department of Agriculture is putting any time into hassling the Hemingway cats … as opposed to … oh, I don’t know … puppy mills, food safety, agribiz reform, etc., etc. From the L.A. Times:
KEY WEST, Fla. — The notion that Charlie Chaplin is putting on a show as he snoozes on the Hemingway Home and Museum veranda — well, that’s enough to make a cat laugh.
But neither the fluffy feline, named for the Little Tramp because of his tuxedo-like markings, nor his 46 companions lazing around the late author’s estate are likely to be amused if the U.S. government succeeds in designating them an animal act and restricts their freedom.
Pampered cats, some of them descendants of Ernest Hemingway’s six-toed pet Snowball, have had the run of the leafy compound for generations.
They are named for the writer’s wives, fictional characters, Hollywood friends and colleagues. Zane Grey and Truman Capote often can be found napping in the flower beds between the villa and the pool. Archibald MacLeish prefers the cool tile floor of the master bathroom. Emily Dickinson seems indifferent to the camera flashes catching her in repose on a predecessor’s tombstone, rarely bestirring herself from the limelight.
Fed organic cat food, tended weekly by a visiting veterinarian, and petted, photographed and cooed at by adoring tourists, the cats have become a beloved quirk of this Key West landmark.
But the languid lifestyle of the Hemingway Home cats is threatened by proposals from the U.S. Department of Agriculture that they be treated like performers in a zoo or circus. The feds want the museum to obtain an animal exhibition license, which would require staff to “protect” the felines from contact with spectators and cage them after their daily “performance” ends when the front gate closes at 5 p.m.
Read the rest.
Two days ago my almost 11-year-old retriever, Heather, had a
All my dogs have been chowhounds, from Savanna the greyhound, who came running all the way from the back of the house at the scent of orange slices wafting from the kitchen to the current Cavaliers, who believe they are due a bite of anything we’re eating. They don’t beg, of course; that would be gauche. But if they don’t get a taste–because it’s 
