Black and grey realism tattoo of a tabby cat's face with wide eyes and an open mouth, on the inner forearm, beside a photo of the real cat.

Realism tabby cat portrait on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey realism tattoo of a tabby cat's head and upper body covers the forearm, with fine shading on the fur, whiskers and ears. A photograph of the real tabby cat, wearing a collar with a bell, sits beside the tattoo on a dark surface against a pale wall. The tattoo is shown in monochrome, so tonal range and shading are the main visual features.

Realism Forearm Cat Tabby cat Portrait Whiskers Collar Bell

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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

Mrs Pilling had asked me four times to hold still, and four times I had obliged by sitting on the good chair, which I considered a generous concession. The fifth time she set down her brush, sighed at the bell on my collar, and said that a portrait of a cat who would not stop moving was a portrait of nothing at all. I told her, in the only way available to me, that I had never moved in my life. Then the lodger's van backfired in the lane and I was up on the windowsill before either of us had decided anything.

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Mrs Pilling's husband had been an engraver at the Cromer printworks until his lungs gave out, and the house still smelled faintly of linseed and turpentine. He had left behind a jar of Indian ink, a box of pen nibs, and a stack of sketchbooks the colour of weak tea. She drew me from the ledge while I watched the lane. Every time a cyclist rang his bell she jumped, and every time she jumped I bared my teeth at the glass, because a cat who has been startled has every right to look astonished about it.

The drawing took her a fortnight. When she finally turned it round, the cat on the paper had enormous, glassy eyes, a mouth caught mid-yowl, and a collar with a small brass bell pressed tight against its throat. She looked at me, then at the sketch, then back again. 'Well,' she said, 'you have finally stopped moving.' I have never forgiven her for the bell, but I forgave her the rest.

Mrs Pilling has since taken the drawing to a shop in Holt, where a man with careful hands copied it onto a stranger's arm. I am told the bell still rings when she lifts her sleeve. I stay on the sill and watch the lane, mouth open, ready for the next cyclist.