Fine line black tattoo of a small sleeping cat with closed eyes and a curled tail on the ankle, shown against a pink textured rug.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small fine line cat on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small outline tattoo of a cat curled up with its eyes closed, drawn with a single thin black line. The linework is simple and unshaded, with a curling tail and a few whisker strokes at the face. The tattoo sits on the ankle against a pale, skin-toned foot, with dark fabric and a pink textured rug in the background.

Fine line Ankle Cat Sleeping cat

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The rain had been coming down on the fish market since before dawn, and by the time the awnings began to sag the cat had already chosen the cart. It was a flat wooden barrow under the eel-seller's tarpaulin, piled with sacks of dried barley, and it had been there for three days without once being moved. The eel-seller's wife called it Tuesday, because that was the day it first arrived, and she fed it the heads of anything too bony to sell.

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Nobody in the market could say whose cat it was. The rope-maker swore it had come off a ship. The clock-mender said it belonged to a witch and kept his distance, though he left a saucer of milk by his door each evening in case. Only the girl who swept the gutters knew it did not hunt. It slept. Through the shouting, through the hooves on the cobbles, through a man who fell into the fountain and a bell that rang eleven times for noon, it curled its tail round its nose and kept its eyes shut.

On the third afternoon the river came up over the lower steps, and the traders dragged their stock uphill in a panic. The eel-seller's wife found she could not lift the barrow with the sacks still on it. She called for help, and the rope-maker came, and the clock-mender, and the three of them heaved together. The cat did not wake. When the barrow tipped and the barley spilled into the brown water, it stayed where it was, dry, as if the sacks had never been its concern.

That night the girl who swept the gutters found a single silver coin lying on the cart where the cat had been, and beside it a whisker, fine as a thread. She kept the whisker. The coin she spent on bread. The cat was never seen on a Tuesday again, though some say it still sleeps through the rain each time the river rises, and that whoever wakes it will find the barrow full of barley by morning.