Close side view of a tiny solid black cat silhouette tattoo on the neck just behind the ear, with several ear piercings visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small black cat tattoo behind the ear

Neck · Black and grey · Photo

A side view of a person's head and neck shows a very small, solid black cat silhouette sitting on the skin behind the ear. The cat has a simple, filled outline with no shading, and the surrounding skin is pale against a dark, softly blurred background. The composition is tight, with the ear and piercings occupying the upper right and the tattoo placed near the centre left.

Neck Cat Silhouette Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hennie Carrow had been counting the cats of Lower Ashby since Michaelmas, and she was certain there were eleven, though the vicar swore nine. The forest began where the last hedge gave up, a stone's throw past the bakehouse, and the lane ran into it like thread into a needle. Nobody went past the stile after dusk unless they had to. Hennie had to, because her brother Tom had gone after the goats and not come back.

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The black cat was sitting on the stile when she reached it, neat as a full stop, its tail wrapped round its feet. It did not stir when she called. Her gran said such cats belonged to the forest and were lent out to villages to keep the paths honest, and that anyone rude to one would be walked in circles until the moon set. Hennie had no time for rudeness. She said please, the only word she had left, and the cat rose, stretched, and stepped down into the dark between the trunks without a sound.

She followed the flick of its tail for what felt like an hour, the lantern making a small gold room around her boots and nothing beyond it. At last the cat stopped beside a hollow oak and looked back. Beneath the roots she found a boot print in the mud, and past it a goat's bell hanging from a bramble, still ringing faintly.

They came home at dawn, the three of them, Tom with a torn sleeve and the goat bleating ahead. The stile was empty, but on the flat stone beside it lay a single dark leaf, face up, its edges sharp as cut paper. Hennie kept it in her pocket for years. When people asked why she never went past the stile after dark, she told them she had once been asked nicely, and had been polite enough to say yes.