Photorealistic tattoo of a black cat with green eyes and whiskers, shown on an upper arm in brown and black shading.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic black cat portrait on an upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A large, photorealistic portrait of a black cat sits on the skin, with its head raised and green eyes looking towards the viewer. The fur is rendered with fine, feathered strokes and soft gradients of black, brown and dark red, with whiskers drawn in pale lines across the face. The cat's body and front paws extend down the frame, filling the composition on a single limb.

Realism Upper arm Cat Black cat Green eye Whiskers Pet portrait Fur

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Mind the fire, now, and pull that chair in, because the wind's come round to the north and it finds every gap in an old farmhouse. You'll hear it working at the shutters. That's the winter I'm telling you about, the one the Pryce lambing went bad. Snow lay three feet against the top gate, and the ewes were dropping their young in the lee of the byre where nobody could reach them.

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Old Mrs Pryce had a cat called Tallow, black as a coal scuttle on top but brown and rust-red underneath when the lamp caught her, like a hearth that hasn't quite gone out. Most nights she sat on the windowsill and looked at nothing. That January she got up and went out into the yard without a sound, and her son Huw, who thought himself too grown to follow a cat, took the lantern and followed anyway. Her eyes came up green out of the dark, once, twice, and then she was gone under the drift by the far wall.

Huw found the ewe there, stuck in a hollow with one lamb born and another coming wrong. He worked it out by feel with his sleeves rolled and his fingers gone white, and when he finally sat back in the straw the cat was perched on the fence post above him, washing one paw as if the whole business had been a tiresome delay. He offered her a bit of his bread. She wouldn't take it. She never did take anything from anyone, not even thanks.

Here's the part they don't put in the parish book. Every winter after that, Tallow walked the yard before dawn and left her prints in the new snow, and every morning there was one more ewe on her feet than the night before. Nobody ever counted them. Some things you're better off not writing down. Now, that's enough of the cold, and mind you bank that fire before you go up.