Fine line black and grey tattoo of a cat in a striped jumper, sitting on the upper shoulder of a person with dark hair.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cat in a striped jumper on a shoulder

Fine line · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a seated cat wearing a jumper with horizontal stripes, with its tail curling out to the left. The linework is fine and even, with light shading on the cat's body and the jumper, and the eyes carry a faint hint of green. The tattoo sits centrally on the shoulder against a plain background, with the subject shown from behind.

Fine line Shoulder Cat Stripe Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down by the stove, the lot of you, and mind the kettle. You'll want to know how the cat came to be wearing a jumper, and I'll tell you true, though Maurice Rudd always swore it was a story told to tourists. The jumper was knitted by Agnes Pell out of grey wool and a navy sleeve she'd unpicked, stripes going round the body like the bands on a buoy. She meant it for her husband Hector, who never wore it, because the Skerry took him in the spring gale before the second sleeve was done.

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The cat was called Admiral, a grey tabby with more opinions than sense, and he took the jumper off the washing line the week after the funeral and wore it as if it had been measured for him. Every evening he climbed the hundred and thirteen steps behind Maurice, sat on the gallery rail with his tail curled out to the left, and watched the boats come home. Maurice said it was vanity. Agnes, who came up on Sundays with a flask, said it was grief, and she let him keep it.

Then came the November night when the fog sat on the water like wet wool and the coal boat was somewhere out past the reef. The lamp had jammed on its clockwork, and Maurice was below with a spanner and a curse when Admiral went out onto the gallery and stood there, striped and stubborn, in the one light still turning. The skipper of the Mary Ann said afterwards that he saw a man standing on the rail, a man in a jersey, and he kept his bow pointed at him all the way in.

Maurice got the lamp going just before the rocks. He came up to find the cat still on the rail, tail curled, looking down at the water as if it owed him an apology. Nobody has taken the jumper off him since. Agnes finished the second sleeve that winter, and the skipper of the Mary Ann still sends a crate of herring up the steps every November, addressed to the man on the rail.