Black and white yin yang tattoo of a black cat and a white cat curled together inside a circle on the inner wrist, in blackwork style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Yin yang cats on a wrist

Blackwork · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A circular yin yang design shows a black cat and a white cat curled around each other, with their tails forming the curves of the circle. The black cat is filled with solid black ink, while the white cat is left as bare skin outlined in black, and the circle has a fine black outline. The tattoo is shown head-on and centred on the inner wrist against a plain, dark background.

Blackwork Forearm Cat Yin yang Circle Black cat

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The cabin of the Harriet Mae measured eleven feet from stove to bunk, which Bram Oddy reckoned was room enough for one cat and one opinion. He had two cats. Pitch was black as the coal in the hold, and Milk was white as a lock gate after the painters had been. Since the frost came down on the Leeds and Liverpool, they had fought over the one warm spot on the cabin floor, the square of boards nearest the firebox, with the dedication of old soldiers.

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Bram tried everything. He folded a sack into a bed by the door. He moved the kettle. He set Milk on the cushion and Pitch on the cold side, and by morning they had swapped and started again, yowling like a pair of hinges. Pitch took the warm boards by night, Milk by day, and neither would lie down within a paw's width of the other. The stove ticked. The ice cracked on the far bank like pistol shots, and Bram sat up in his coat listening to them hiss.

On the coldest night of the winter he woke to a quiet he didn't trust and found them both on the square of boards. Pitch had curled his body into a loop, and Milk had wound her white tail over his, so that the two of them made a ring, tails meeting at the back. Their heads faced opposite ways, neither willing to give up the view. In the middle of that ring the heat sat like a coin in a purse, and none of it leaked out.

Bram didn't move them. He lay back down and let the stove burn itself to ash, and by the time the frost had gone off the towpath he had scratched a small circle with a nail into the paint on the firebox door, two curls like tails meeting in the middle. Nobody on the cut ever asked him what it meant. The cats never asked either, and the stove never needed telling.