Colour tattoo of a calico cat's face with green eyes, pink nose and whiskers, in a soft illustrative style, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Calico cat face on forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A cat's face in three-quarter view fills the forearm, with grey, black and orange patches across the head and ears, pale muzzle and green eyes. Bold dark outlines define the features and whiskers, while soft grey and blue shading models the fur and the inner ear. Colour is limited to muted orange, green and a touch of pink on the nose, set against the skin with a plain background.

Neo-trad Forearm Cat Cat face Whiskers Portrait

Find an artist for this

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

Nobody on the quay at Skerrick would admit that Biscuit chose the boats, but he did. Three colours, sooty grey over the back, orange patched across the crown as if someone had dropped marmalade on him, and a white bib he kept immaculate by licking it in front of the fish market. He slept on the coiled net of the Margaret Lowe and nowhere else, and when the skipper, Tom Haskett, said the cat was bad luck, Biscuit simply yawned and went on being right about the weather.

Keep reading

The morning the wind backed northerly, he would not come down off the wall. I stood on the slipway with a tin of pilchards and called him until my voice gave out. Tom swore and cast off without him, the diesel coughing blue smoke over the mole, and I watched the boat round the lighthouse with the cat sitting on the bollard beside me, ears flat, eyes fixed on the water as though it were the only thing in the harbour worth looking at.

The sea got up by noon. The radio on the harbour office wall crackled through the afternoon and nobody said much. Boats came in one by one, and the Margaret Lowe came in last, late and slow, with a split rail and Tom grey as the sky, lifting one hand to the wall as if the cat could see him.

I still keep Biscuit's dish by the back door. He never ate from it much. He sits on the window ledge now and watches the mole with those green eyes, the way you would watch a bad tide you had already decided to outlast, and every so often he turns to look at me as if to say I should have known better.