Man in a white vest holding a tabby kitten against his forearm, showing black ink script lettering on his chest and an ornamental tattoo on his arm and hand.

Script chest tattoo and forearm design with kitten

Lettering · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

A man in a white ribbed vest holds a grey tabby kitten against his forearm, with the kitten's face turned towards the camera. His chest carries black script lettering, partly visible, and his forearm and hand have a dense black ink ornamental design. The image is a warm indoor photograph with soft natural light and the tattoos as the main focus.

Lettering Chest Forearm Hand Kitten Cat Script lettering Man

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now sit down, the lot of you, and mind the kettle, because this is the story of how Ada Pinnock's cat came to be worth more than the Pinnock ironworks, and nobody in Hartley Cross has ever agreed on the price. You'll have heard the old version, where the cat is a witch's. That's rubbish. The cat was a grey tabby called Biscuit, born in the coal shed behind the Crown, and she had the sort of face that made a grown man put down his pint.

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Her trouble was that she belonged to nobody. Old Gideon Marr, who made gates for the big houses up on the hill, hated cats on principle, and his wife Lily kept three in the scullery and pretended otherwise. The two of them had not spoken civilly since the flood of '47 took the wall between their yards. So when the kitten climbed into the scrolls of Gideon's half-finished gate one wet Tuesday and fell asleep curled in a rose of hammered iron, he swore he would have her off with a broom. Instead he stood in the rain for an hour holding the broom like a fool.

Lily came out with a saucer of milk and found him there. Neither of them said a word about the wall. They simply began to work around the cat, Gideon hammering the scrolls a little wider so she'd not be pinched, Lily stitching a cushion of old sacking to fit the curl of the iron. By Michaelmas the gate was finished, and it was the only gate in the county with a grey tabby worked into its ironwork, though nobody could say who had made the cat and who the gate.

Biscuit lived to nineteen. When she died they buried her beneath the gate, and the two of them were seen walking up the hill together every Sunday after, one carrying the milk, one carrying the tongs. Mind your cup. That's the end of it.