The federal man came from grim shellshock on the swampy mainland far north, just this side of the line. It didnt matter. He must feel anguish. The yowling menace he saw meant that nothing but quietus would suit his alien vision of needful harsh loss. Or maybe just a license.

The old guy watched the man write the ticket. Who wouldve thought you could get in trouble for six-toes, he thought. What the [unprintable] did the extra pads matter, he said to no one except the night air but really maybe the cicadas.

Snowball, he said in a whisper. We thought you was a boy.

See 907 Whitehead Street, Inc. v. Secretary of Agriculture, No. 11-14217 (11th Cir. Dec. 7, 2012) (holding that museum in Ernest Hemingway's winter home on Key West during the 1930s needed a federal license to "exhibit" 40-50 "polydactyl" cats, many of which descended from the fecund Snowball).