Realistic colour tattoo of a tabby cat with yellow-green eyes on the upper arm, set against a red background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Tabby cat portrait on upper arm

Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A detailed portrait of a tabby cat looking to the right, with fine whisker lines and striped brown and black fur. The shading moves smoothly from highlights around the eyes and nose to dark tones in the fur, giving the cat a lifelike, three-dimensional look. A red and orange wash behind the head makes the cat stand out, and the photo is taken close up on a glossy, lit area of skin.

Realism Upper arm Cat Tabby cat Portrait Whiskers Pet portrait

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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

The tabby is already sitting on the cracked forecourt of the Esker Creek fuel stop when you pull in, as if she has paid for the pump. Her coat is the colour of dry bracken, barred with black down her flanks, and she watches the sun sink behind the ridge with the patience of a landlady waiting on rent. You have forty miles of empty road ahead and a boot full of boxes that belong to someone who stopped writing to you years ago.

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The attendant, a man called Dorrie with grease to the elbows, nods at the cat without looking up from his till. 'She belongs to nobody,' he says. 'Comes out at dusk for the mackerel I leave by the bins. Knows the car, mind. Knows when it's yours and when it's a stranger's.' You say you're a stranger, and he laughs, a short dry sound like a match struck in wind.

The sky behind the ridge goes from rust to the inside of a peach, and the light lays itself across her face so every whisker stands out like a fine wire. You open the passenger door. She turns, yellow eyes narrowing, and you do not move. A full minute passes, then another. Then she steps up onto the seat, settles on the road atlas as though she has been expecting it, and begins to purr at the dashboard.

You drive the rest of the way with the atlas under her paws and the window cracked. At the lonely junction where the signal finally comes back, she hops down onto the verge, looks back once along the road you have just travelled, and walks into the dark without asking you to stop.