Black and grey traditional style tattoos of a hare on the left foot and an owl on the right foot, both on the tops of the feet.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hare and owl tattoos on feet

Traditional · Other · Black and grey · Photo

Two bare feet against a black background show a hare's head on the left foot and an owl's face on the right. Both designs use bold black outlines with grey shading that gives the fur and feathers depth. The tattoos are the clear focus, with the toes and feet framed symmetrically in the centre of the image.

Traditional Other Hare Owl Feet Animal Rabbit

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The hare had taken the whole row of kale again by the time I reached the walled garden with the lantern. Its prints ran through the frost like stitching, and up on the gatepost the owl sat with its ear-tufts flattened, pretending it had seen nothing. I had no quarrel with the owl. It kept the shed free of mice, and that was the bargain my grandmother had struck with them both before the war, when the garden was the only thing on the lane that still fed anyone.

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Every evening I left the gap in the south wall open, a loose brick pulled aside, so the hare could come and go, and every morning the owl collected its wages from the mouse run under the potting bench. The hare was no thief, I told myself, only hungry, and the owl was no villain, only doing its work in the dark where I couldn't see. Between them they had kept me company longer than most people in the village had.

One morning in February the hare did not come. The kale stood untouched, the gap in the wall stayed empty, and the owl sat on the gatepost all day without moving, its round eyes fixed on the sundial at the far end of the lawn. I went down with a spade expecting the worst and found the hare in the long grass beside the dial, unhurt, pressed flat to the ground as if it were listening to something far beneath it.

The owl had not hunted it. It had simply stayed through the night, which I had never known an owl to do. When I looked up, the owl lifted off the post and let fall one grey feather onto the path between us, soft as a folded note. I kept it in the seed tin for years, and I never once planted kale in that bed again.