Greyscale realistic tattoo of an anthropomorphic cat with bared fangs and long whiskers, wearing a patterned waistcoat and pearl necklace, on the upper arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Realistic cat in waistcoat on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A realistic portrait of an anthropomorphic cat in three-quarter profile, with bared fangs, long white whiskers and wide eyes. It wears a dark coat over a pale, ornately patterned waistcoat with a strand of pearls hanging down. The soft, smooth shading is built from black and grey tones, and the dark, loose wash behind the figure fades into the skin at the edges.

Realism Upper arm Cat Pearl Whiskers Fangs

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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

Sit down before you wear a hole in that lino, Priya. Mind the trolley, it pulls left, like everything else in this building. I'll tell you about Mr Fenwick while the kettle makes up its mind.

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Mr Fenwick was a cat, and he dressed for dinner every night of his life. Pale paisley waistcoat, dark coat he never took off, and his late wife's pearls looped twice round his neck and hanging down over the buttons. He lived above the chemist's on Mill Street and bit the cleaner the one time she tried to dust his chair. He had opinions about the council, and he delivered them with his fangs out.

The winter the east wing radiators failed, he started coming up the back stairs at two in the morning. Nobody let him in. He simply appeared on the fire escape with snow on his whiskers and waited until I opened the door, which, being the night porter, was usually me. He never went near a bed. He sat on the bottom step and watched the corridor like a magistrate who had already made up his mind, and if a trolley rattled too loud he swore at it.

One night in February the generator coughed and the lights went down to the emergency glow. I found him at the top of the stairs, upright, the pearls laid out across his paws. I said, Mr Fenwick, it's nearly four. He yawned, showed me every tooth he had, and padded off into the dark as if he owned the place. The pearls were still on him. I've never been sure whether the building was keeping him, or he was keeping the building.