Colour tattoo of a cat's face in a soft watercolour style with blue, pink and purple washes and drips, placed on the upper back near the shoulder blade.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Watercolour cat on upper back

Back · Colour · Photo

A cat's face is rendered in blue, pink and purple with soft, bleeding edges and splatter marks around it. The cat has solid black eyes, a small red nose and fine white whisker lines, and purple drips run down below the head. The tattoo sits on the upper back, with the design centred and fading into the surrounding skin.

Back Cat Watercolour Splatter Drip Whiskers Eye

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The boats came in on the ebb, and Old Tamsin counted them from the wall the way she counted everything, by the cat. Mab sat on the bollard at the end of Fish Quay with her tail wrapped round her feet, and when Mab stood up, the boats were home. Nobody in Porthgarran had ever argued with that arrangement.

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Then came the autumn the Mary Ann did not come in. The fleet had gone out under a sky the colour of a bruise, and by dusk the rain was driving sideways off the bay. Tamsin went down to the wall with a lantern. Mab was not on the bollard. She was at the top of the slipway, flattened, ears back, staring at the water as if it owed her something.

Tamsin had grown up hearing that cats can see the drowned, and she did not believe it, but she had been wrong about other things. She sat on the wet stone beside the cat and waited, and the rain ran down her collar and into the lantern light. Out past the breakwater a green light blinked, then another, and then the Mary Ann's dim lamp swung round the point, low in the water, her sail black against the storm.

Mab rose, walked down the slipway and into the surf up to her chest, which no sensible cat has ever done. The men on the deck threw a rope. When they hauled the boat in, the cat came back up the stones dripping blue and violet from the lamplight on the spray, and Tamsin swore afterwards that the colour ran down the steps in streaks, like paint from a brush dipped once too often. Every boat that season came home. The old women said that was the cat's doing, and the old men said it was the weather. Tamsin never said anything at all, except to leave the bollard warm.