Neo-traditional tattoo of a blue cartoon owl with yellow ear tufts and large round eyes perched on a dark branch with green leaves, on a limb.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blue cartoon owl on a branch

Neo-trad · Other · Colour · Photo

A bold cartoon owl with blue scale-like feathers, yellow ear tufts, large round eyes with yellow irises and an orange beak sits on a dark branch with green leaves. The thick black outlines and flat, even fills give it a clean, graphic look. Colour ink dominates, with blue, yellow, orange and green against the skin tone, and the design is centred on a plain background.

Neo-trad Other Owl Bird Branch Leaves Eye Feather

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hush now, the lot of you, and shift that kettle off the hob before it sings over me. The snow's up to the bothy sill and nobody's walking to Hallam tonight, so you'll have the story whether you like it or not. This one's about Mrs Tallow's owl, which lived in the old elm behind the Drover's Rest and had eyes the size of soup bowls, yellow as a guttering candle.

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The owl was blue, and that was the trouble. Every owl in the valley was brown as a split loaf, so when Bramwell Dunn came down from the tops with a sack of dyed wool and a wager in his pocket, the others laughed themselves off their branches. Blue as a jay's egg, they said. Blue as a drowned man's lip. The owl said nothing. It sat with its ear tufts raised like a pair of gold spectacles and listened to every word.

Then the frost came in January and the wood went hard as iron. The mice dug so deep nobody could find them, and the brown owls sat puffed and miserable on their frozen perches, cursing the weather and each other. But the blue owl had a trick the others had never bothered to learn. It flew out over the drifts at dusk, all silver and grey, and it came back every night with a mouse in its beak, setting each one down at the feet of the brown owls like a postman with a parcel nobody had ordered.

And the brown owls, being brown, did not say thank you. They asked Bramwell, quite politely, if he might dye them a little bluer. Bramwell said he'd sold his last pot to the blacksmith's wife. So if you climb up to the elm tomorrow, when the thaw comes, you'll see one blue owl and a row of sulking brown ones, and you'll know the laughing was only the cold talking.