Fine line tattoo of a cat face with folded ears and whiskers on the back of a person's neck, with dark hair pulled up above it.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Folded-ear cat face on the back of the neck

Fine line · Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A cat's face with folded ears and whiskers sits in a circular outline on the back of the neck. The linework is fine and sketchy, with soft grey shading around the eyes, forehead stripes and muzzle, and a small pink nose. The tattoo is centred in the frame against a plain light background, with a navy and white striped top at the bottom edge.

Fine line Neck Cat Cat face Whiskers Circle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Nobody had told Maureen the cat was staying, so for the first fortnight of October she pretended it wasn't there. It sat on the cloakroom shelf between the numbered tickets and a tin of Bovril, its round face turned towards the ballroom doors as if it were waiting to be asked to foxtrot. Its ears were folded flat against its head, like a letter someone had creased twice and then lost interest in.

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Mr Ackroyd, who managed the Palais with the gloom of a man who had never once been asked to dance, wanted it gone by Friday. Maureen said the cat had caught two mice and a sixpence, and that a ballroom with no cat was just a draughty room with a floor. Ackroyd said a cat was a hazard. Maureen said so was Mr Pratt's wife's hat. The cat stayed, and on Friday it watched the Hollis Brothers Orchestra with an expression of mild disapproval, which Maureen thought was fair.

In the last waltz the lights failed. The crowd made the noise crowds make, and the band kept going on tuppenny candles while Maureen searched the cloakroom with a torch. She found the cat under the stage piano, pressed against the pedals, its dark eyes wide and its whiskers trembling in the beam. When she crouched and held out a hand, it came to her without hurry, as though the whole evening had been arranged for its benefit.

The following Monday a card appeared pinned beside the tickets in Ackroyd's careful capitals: CLOAKROOM CAT. NO CHARGE. NO DANCING. Maureen moved the tin of Bovril a little to the left so the cat had room to sit, and it settled into its old place with its ears folded and its face to the doors, ready for the next waltz.