Small purple-grey cat tattoo with an arched tail on the upper back near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Black cat tattoo on upper back

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A small tattoo of a cat standing in profile with its back arched and tail curled upwards, with whiskers visible on the face. The cat is filled with dark purple-grey shading and outlined in black, with soft tonal shading along the body. It sits on bare skin against a plain warm-toned background, with the shoulder blade and blurred objects visible at the edges of the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain has been coming sideways down Hallam Street since before six, and you are the only one still bothering to haul the tarpaulin tight over the eel tubs. The cat watches you from the crate of unsold cabbages, back bowed up like a little bridge, tail hooked at the tip as if she has been waiting all morning for someone to notice her opinion of the weather. Nobody on the market owns her. Dolores on the cheese stall says she belongs to Mr Pell on the flower pitch, Mr Pell says she belongs to the council, and the council, as far as anyone can tell, has never once been asked.

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You tear a strip of kipper skin from the bin and hold it out on your palm. She doesn't come. She doesn't go, either. The strip-lights buzz above the stalls, the shutters rattle down one by one, and the puddles lay the whole street back to you upside down, shutters and gulls and your own tired shape bent over the bins. When you finally lift the float tin off the counter, she is already sitting under the van wheel, dry as a bone on the grey concrete, one paw tucked neatly beneath her chest.

She walks ahead of you all the way to the gate, stopping each time the rain gusts, tail up and steady, as though she is the one locking up for the night and you are simply the last thing left to be let out. At the corner by the closed bakery she pauses, shakes one foot free of the wet, and sits down with her tail curled round her feet like a question she has no intention of answering.

By morning the rain will have rubbed the chalk prices off the boards. The cabbages will be gone, and Dolores will swear the cat was never here at all. But you will pass that corner on the way in, and there she will be, black and unbothered, under the bakery awning, watching you the way you watch the weather.

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