Colour tattoo of a faceted grey and blue cat head with yellow eyes and a pink nose, sitting on the forearm in a geometric style.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Geometric cat head on a forearm

Geometric · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A cat's head faces the viewer, built from angular facets of blue, teal, grey and black with white across the muzzle. Bold dark outlines define the ears and jaw, and the yellow eyes and pink nose stand out against the cooler shading. The tattoo sits centred on the outer forearm against plain skin, with a white garment and dark background at the edges of the frame.

Geometric Neo-trad Forearm Cat Cat head Whiskers

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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

Now then, sit down where the stove is warm, because I'm not telling this one twice. You'll have seen the cat that sat on the harbour wall at Skerrow Bay in the winter of fifty-three. Grey as a slate roof, with a face like it had been cut out of one, all corners and angry edges. Old Mrs Pelling called him Constable, because he watched everyone who came down the slipway and made up his mind about them before they reached the bottom.

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The trouble started when the mackerel boats came in short. Tom Haddow swore somebody was lifting the catch from the hold while the crew were at the Anchor, and the whole village took sides before the tide turned. Ted Carver said it was the Pelling boy. Ruth at the chandlery said it was the gulls, and the gulls had been stealing since the Armada. Only Constable knew, and he wasn't saying. He just sat on the bollard with those yellow eyes narrowed, staring along the quay at the one door nobody watched.

It was the cold stone of the net store that gave him away. He stood at its doorway every night, unmoving, until Ted finally took a lantern down there himself, and found a dozen pilchards hidden behind the tar barrels, laid out neat as a shop window. Hadn't been the gulls. Hadn't been the boy. Some hungry lad from the far end of the village had been coming down the back steps every night for a month, too proud to ask. Constable had simply decided it was his business.

Ted went up the back lane the next morning with a basket and a pair of boots that fit. And every evening after, the old grey cat sat on the bollard and looked along the quay, satisfied that justice had been done, with the expression of a magistrate who would not hear an appeal.