Small colour tattoo of a black and white cat face on a wrist, beside a sleeping black and white cat.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cat face tattoo on a wrist

Other · Mixed · Photo

A small tattoo of a black and white cat's face sits on the inside of a wrist, with pointed ears, yellow eyes and a pink nose. The linework is clean and the black and white areas are filled solidly, with light touches of yellow and pink. A real black and white cat sleeps beside the arm, with its paws in the foreground, so the tattoo mirrors the animal in the frame.

Other Cat Sleeping cat Paw

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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

Mind the beans, child, and sit where the wall still holds the sun, because this happened in the walled garden behind the Grange, where old Amos Pell kept a black and white cat called Pilcher. Pilcher slept on everything. He slept on the seed trays, on the sundial, on the warm flags by the pump, and on the arm of anyone who sat still long enough to be a cushion.

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One dry August a lad named Tobias Kell came up from the village to take the plot rents. He was sour, with lamp-black on his fingers from the chandler's shop, and he sat on the bench to write in the gate-book. Pilcher climbed up, turned three times, and laid one white paw across the boy's wrist as though he had been asked. Tobias did not move. He hardly breathed, my grandmother always said, and that was the start of his trouble.

When the cat finally slept, Tobias took his pen and, with the careful hand of a boy copying a sampler, drew Pilcher's face on the soft inside of his own wrist. Two pointed ears. Eyes he filled in yellow with the last of a sable brush. A small pink nose and a black patch that made the cat look faintly surprised. When he showed the mark to the gardener, Amos only laughed and said the cat would not stay where it was put.

It was true. By the next noon Pilcher had gone from the sundial, and Tobias had gone from the village, and the gate-book had a new name written in it that no one could read. But on hot afternoons a black and white cat lies on the warm stones by the pump, and if you lift his paw you will find the little face on the wrist beneath it, looking up at you, wide awake.