Black and grey tattoo of a seated Egyptian cat wearing an Eye of Horus collar and a winged scarab beetle on the thigh.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Egyptian cat with scarab on a thigh

Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A seated cat in the style of Egyptian Bastet imagery fills the centre of the thigh, with an ornate collar bearing an Eye of Horus and a winged scarab on its chest. The linework is fine and the body is built up with smooth grey shading, with light highlights on the scarab. Small hieroglyph-style marks sit along the left edge of the frame, and the design is shown straight on against a pale floor.

Thigh Cat Eye of horus Egyptian Collar

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The plums have started to split on the lower branches by the time the grey cat comes down the wall, and you are already counting wasps off the windfalls when she sits herself in the middle of the path as if she owns the orchard, which, in her opinion, she does. Her collar is gilded at the edges and a little chipped, and on her chest a winged beetle spreads above a patterned band and a painted eye. You have never seen a cat look so much like a magistrate.

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Old Mr Harrow at the packing shed says she came with the lease, the same as the ladders. He says the mice went quiet the year she arrived and the rats moved across the lane to the Pearsons. You believe him about the rats. You do not believe him about the lease. Every evening she walks the rows with her tail upright, stopping at the trees that have dropped their fruit, and waits until you carry the bruised windfalls to the pig bucket before she moves on.

On the last Sunday of August the heat breaks over the Weald in a storm that tears the Discovery apples off their spurs and leaves the grass flattened and steaming. You find her under the cart shed, dry and unbothered, eyes half closed. You kneel on the wet stone and she opens one eye, the one with a little light caught in it, and regards you as though you have finally arrived at the right time.

By dusk the storm has gone east and the air smells of crushed leaves and cider. She walks ahead of you to the old Bramley at the far wall, the one nobody bothers with because it stands too high, and sits beneath it with her back straight. You climb the ladder and find the fruit still hanging, heavy and unmarked, and when you look down she is watching the top branch as though it were the only thing in the county worth guarding.