Black and grey dotwork tattoo of a standing cat with a curled tail on the upper thigh, with the cat's back arched toward the viewer.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dotwork cat with curled tail on a hip

Dotwork · Thigh · Black and grey · Photo

A small cat with an upright curled tail, outlined in fine black linework and filled with stippled dots for shading. The cat stands in profile with ears up and whiskers drawn out from the face. It sits on smooth skin on the upper thigh, with a Cyrillic word printed or written above the waistband and the image in black and grey.

Dotwork Thigh Cat Tail Whiskers

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

Day three on the Lorn Flats road, and the cat is back. I was sure I'd left her at the Dunmara fuel stop, where she sat on the pump like a sentry and refused to be shooed. Grey, I'd have called her at the time, but out here the light turns everything to dust and shadow, and she comes out of it all dots and stippled dark, like a drawing someone rubbed with a thumb. Her tail goes up and over at the tip, a question mark I am too tired to answer.

Keep reading

She rides in the passenger footwell now with her ears pricked and her whiskers fanned out against the glare, watching the road as if she has a timetable I haven't been shown. At every stop she is already waiting on the bonnet when I get out. Yesterday the man at the diner told me the Flats used to be a lake, and that the old drovers called it the Cat's Way because animals always crossed it first, before the storms came in. I laughed at him. He didn't.

This evening the tarmac gave out and the van rattled onto the salt. I stopped to let the engine cool and she climbed down without a word and walked away across the white, tail up, not once looking back. I followed her in my boots, out past the last of the road markers, until the crust began to crack under me and the sky went the colour of a bruise.

By morning the wind had been over everything. There were no paw prints, only a fine scatter of grit across the lake bed, dotted and dim, and somewhere out there a small upright shape I could not tell from the stones.