Small black and grey tattoo of a cat's face on the inner wrist, with a real black and white cat resting its paws on the hand.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cat face tattoo on the inner wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a black and white cat's face sits on the inner wrist, shown with simple bold outlines and light grey shading. A real black and white cat rests its head and paws on the hand above it, and the tattoo and cat share similar markings. The photograph is taken from above with the wrist running diagonally through the lower half of the frame.

Forearm Cat Cat face Pet portrait Animal

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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

The glass had been falling since Tuesday, and Mrs Tallow would not leave the wheelhouse. Skipper Doig swore she was the only creature aboard the Maggie Rae with any sense, and he kept the stove lit for her in the mornings. She had a black patch over one eye like a bad night's sleep and a white bib she kept spotless, which was more than could be said for the deck.

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Ewan had been aboard eleven weeks when the wind went round to the north-east and the sea came green over the rail. He was hauling creels on the stern when the cat dropped from the hatch cover onto his wrist, claws out, then curled herself into the crook of his arm and refused to budge. Doig bellowed for him to get below. Ewan stayed put, because a cat who chose a man's arm in a gale was not a cat to argue with, and the boat rode the next swell easier than any before it.

They came in on the morning tide with the hold half full and the crew grey as gulls. The cat walked down the gangway ahead of everyone, tail up, and disappeared into the net loft of Mrs Ruthven, who had fed strays on the quay for forty years and had been waiting, she said, for this one to come to her senses.

Ewan went to the tattooist on Shore Street the next afternoon. He had the face drawn from memory on a paper napkin: the bib, the patch, the ears held forward as if listening for weather. The artist asked whether the cat had died. Ewan said no, she was ashore, which was the sensible place for her, and that his wrist was the only part of him she had ever bothered to sleep on.