Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Fine line cat on the ribs
Fine line · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo
A small outline tattoo of a cat with an arched back, raised tail and turned head sits on the side of the ribs, below a black bra. The linework is thin and even, with no shading, and the design is rendered in black ink on pale skin. The photograph is black and white, with a tiled wall and door frame in the background.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The cat turned up the week the last of the swedes were lifted, a grey and white thing with a kink in its tail, and my father said we had no use for it. He said it the way he said most things, looking past me at the weather. By then the yard had gone to frozen ruts and the tractor needed two goes to catch in the mornings, so I took to leaving a saucer of milk by the bale stack in the end stall, where the wind couldn't get at it.
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It never came when I called. It came when I wasn't looking, arching its back along the top rail of the gate as if the fence had personally offended it, tail raised like a question someone had drawn in one stroke. I started keeping count of its visits in the back of the feed book. Eleven by the second week of January. Fourteen by the day the beck froze hard enough for Dad to walk across it and swear at the ice.
On the last morning of the month there was no cat in the straw and no cat on the gate, only a single line of prints across the yard, stopping dead at the bottom of the lane. I followed them to the road and found nothing but the grit the council had spread and a sky the colour of pewter.
I still leave the saucer out. Dad stopped mentioning it sometime in February, and the milk goes sour before the light reaches it, but I have never once poured it away.
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