Solid black cartoon cat with wide white eyes and scratch marks, tattooed on skin in a bold, simple cartoon style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cartoon black cat clawing at skin

Black and grey · Photo

A cartoon black cat with large white eyes, whiskers and a curled tail hangs against the skin, its paws reaching outwards as if clinging to a surface. Short black scratch marks above and beside the cat suggest it is clawing its way down. The design is filled with solid black ink on a warm, tan skin tone, with the white eyes left as bare skin, and the plain background keeps the focus on the figure.

Cat Cartoon Claw Tail Whiskers

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

No, sit still, Tomas, you'll hear it better if you stop fidgeting and pass me that windfall. There. Now, the cat. You know the cat, the black one with eyes like two boiled sweets? Mrs Pryce's Soot. She went up the Bramley one hot August, after a wasp or a wren or whatever it was she had her heart set on, and halfway up she decided she would rather be a tree than a cat.

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So there she hung, four claws in the bark and her tail dangling like a bell rope, and the whole village stood underneath shouting advice. Idris brought the long ladder from the cider shed, but it was too short by a yard and a half, which was the first time anyone in Llanfair had ever been short of anything. Mrs Pryce wept into her apron. The vicar offered a prayer. Soot, to her credit, did not look down once.

Then the thing happened that nobody expected. She began to come down the trunk on her own, one claw at a time, and each claw dragged a long, pale scratch through the bark behind her, slow as rain running down a window. It took her the whole of the afternoon. When she finally reached the lowest bough she dropped onto the grass, shook herself, and walked off up the lane with her tail held high, as though it had been her idea all along and the rest of us had been in her way.

The Bramley grew around those scratches. You can still see them if you go down to Pryce's orchard, four pale lines running from the first fork to the root, and every picker since has pointed and said there goes Soot, still on her way down. She never climbed a tree again. She spent her last years on the wall by the gate, watching the apples fall, and I do not believe she once looked up.