Small black fine line tattoo of a sitting cat with whiskers and a curled tail on a person's ankle.

Sitting cat outline on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

The tattoo is a simple outline of a cat sitting upright with its head raised, whiskers extending to each side and a tail curling round at the base. The linework is thin and even, in black ink with no shading or fill. The bare lower leg and ankle fill most of the frame against a pale wall and speckled floor, with the small design placed on the outer ankle.

Fine line Ankle Cat Sitting cat Whiskers Tail Outline

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down on the crates, or stand under the awning if your knees have gone the way of mine. Leave the umbrella up, the rain's not finished and neither am I. You want the cat? Everybody wants the cat. Well, listen.

Keep reading

Dorrie Vane kept the fish stall at the end of Saltergate, the one with the blue tin sign that was never quite straight. Every morning at six a grey cat sat on the crate beside her scales, upright as a clerk, head lifted as if someone had just called its name from across the street. It never begged. It only waited, tail wrapped neatly round its feet, and when the boats came in it went down to the quay ahead of anyone and came back with a gull's feather in its mouth, which it dropped at Dorrie's boots like a receipt.

Then the winter the herring failed, Dorrie sold up and went to her sister's in Whitby, and nobody thought to tell the cat. Three weeks it sat on that crate in the rain. Men swept round it. A boy tried to shoo it with a broom and it did not move a whisker. On the twentieth morning the boy, who was not so hard as he looked, scooped the cat up under his coat, paid the coach driver a shilling he did not have, and rode it all the way up the coast to Whitby.

So when you wonder why the stall stays empty and the cat keeps looking down the road, understand that it was never the fish that kept it. Dorrie's kettle was always on the hob by the time the coach pulled in, and the cat, I'm told, sat on her windowsill with its tail curled round its paws, watching the door as if it had only stepped out for a moment.