Black and grey realism tattoo of a hairless Sphynx cat inside an ornate scrolled frame with gemstones, on a limb.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Sphynx cat portrait in an ornate frame

Realism · Other · Black and grey · Photo

A hairless Sphynx cat is shown in a realistic portrait style, with wrinkled skin, pale eyes and large ears, set within an ornate oval frame. The shading is smooth and tonal, with a dark background behind the cat and detailed scrollwork and beaded edging around the frame, which has two gem-like stones at the top and bottom. The tattoo is shown in black and grey on a limb, with the surrounding skin visible at the edges.

Realism Other Cat Sphynx cat Portrait Frame Scrollwork Gemstone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The frost had got into the lane by the time we carried the frame down from Aunt Winifred's back bedroom, and Dad swore at every step because the oval glass had a crack running up through the gilt. Behind it sat Pudding, or his painted likeness, as bald as a boiled egg and twice as creased, staring out with those milky eyes as though the whole farm had been his idea.

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Winifred had kept him on that wall for forty years. The cat himself had been under the plum tree since before I was born, and the wind had since snapped the plum in two. She commissioned the portrait from a travelling painter who came through Cold Harbour with a cough and a box of brushes, and she paid him in eggs and a christening gown nobody ever wore. Dad wanted the lot sold to the auctioneer in Hexham. I only wanted the scrollwork, the beaded edges and the two grey stones, one at the top and one at the bottom, like a pair of eyes that had decided to stay put.

That last night before the van came, I sat up with the lamp and a hot water bottle and cleaned the glass with vinegar. Tucked behind the backboard was a folded sheet in her round hand: "He never once looked at the camera, and he never once looked sorry." Under it was a smaller pencil sketch of Winifred in her chair with the cat across her knees, both of them squinting at the same spot on the wall.

In the morning I hung the frame back on its nail above the stove, where the heat would keep the damp off the canvas. Dad watched me from the doorway with his cap in his hands. "The auctioneer won't mind waiting," I said. He didn't argue, which was how I knew he had been looking at the portrait too.