Small colour tattoo of a seated orange fox with a curled tail, placed behind a person's ear on the neck in a fine line style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small orange fox tattoo behind the ear

Fine line · Neck · Colour · Photo

A small tattoo of a stylised orange fox sits upright with its tail curled round to one side, set on the skin behind the ear. The outlines are thin and dark, with flat orange fill and some soft shading on the body and tail. The fox sits centrally against the skin, with the ear and dark hair framing it at the left and right edges.

Fine line Neck Fox Tail Animal

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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

The last elephant went to a farm outside Tewkesbury in March, and by May the big top smelled permanently of wet canvas and diesel. Nobody bothers to lock the menagerie wagon any more. So when you come back from the water tap and find a fox sitting on the bottom rung of the trapeze rigging, tail curled neatly round its feet, you assume it has wandered in for the scraps the clowns leave behind.

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It has not come for scraps. Every evening it appears at the gap in the canvas by the ring gate and waits while Mr Vosper, the ringmaster, finishes his ledger. He pays the wages from a biscuit tin now. You have watched him count out coins, then count them again, then put them back. The fox watches him too, with the patience of an animal that knows exactly how much is left in the tin.

On the last night of the season, the council man arrives with a clipboard and a van. The fox does not run. It crosses the sawdust, stops at your boots and sits down, tail wrapped round to one side like a question mark nobody bothered to finish. Vosper says it has been waiting for the show to start. You say nothing, because you suspect the fox is not waiting for an audience at all.

You turn off the work lamps one by one until the tent goes dark, except for the fox, which seems to hold a small orange light somewhere under its fur. You leave the gate open. By morning it has gone, and so, you tell yourself, has the circus, though the tin still rattles in the wagon every time someone walks past it.