Two black dotwork tattoos on a lower leg: a fox in a top hat within a triangle on the left, and a rabbit beside a church spire on the right.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Fox and rabbit calf tattoos in dotwork

Dotwork · Calf · Black and grey · Photo

Two tattoos sit on the lower leg, one showing a fox wearing a top hat inside a triangular frame and the other a rabbit beside a church with spires and a cross. The linework is fine and sketchy, with shading built from stippled dots and hatching. The ink is entirely black and grey, and the photo is taken at a slight angle against a plain grey background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bell rope had frayed to a grey whisker by the second week of Lent, and Mabel Quarrie knew the fox had been in the tower again. Nobody else in Harrowgate Lane wore a top hat to climb a steeple. Mr Vane Tolliver, attorney, had bought the freehold of St Ebba's the autumn the old vicar died, and he said the building was a debt owed to the parish that he intended to collect.

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Her brother Sam, who kept the rabbit's hutch behind the vestry, insisted the rabbit was the true owner. Pip had lived under the nave since before the roof was slated, and she had never once asked anyone for rent. Mabel went to see for herself on the Tuesday, climbing the wet ladder with a lantern and a tin of biscuits as a peace offering, and found the two of them sitting cross-legged on the lectern, dividing a sheet of paper into neat squares.

"A deed," Tolliver said, tipping his hat. "Half the spire to whoever can count the feathers on it." Pip only twitched her ears. The lantern showed the cross on the gable, black against the cloud, and the rooks lifting off the slates like spilt ink. Mabel counted, because counting was what the parish had taught her. There were eleven feathers in the wing, and the rabbit had drawn twelve.

They argued until the bells rang midnight, though the bells had no rope to ring them. In the morning the deed lay on the altar folded into a small hard triangle, signed with a paw print and a flourish, and both of them were gone. Mabel still keeps the biscuit tin on the sill. Some mornings it is empty, and the rope hangs in a neat bow as if someone had tied it carefully for her.

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