Colourful watercolour-style tattoo of a sitting cat with sketchy black outlines on the upper thigh.

Watercolour-style cat tattoo on a thigh

Thigh · Colour · Photo

A sitting cat with its tail curled up is drawn in loose black linework on the outer thigh. Soft washes of orange, pink, yellow, blue and purple bleed beyond the outline, with drips and splatters around the body. The cat fills most of the frame against a blurred outdoor background.

Thigh Cat Sitting cat Tail Paw Splatter

Find an artist for this

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 cat turned up on the last Saturday in August, sitting on the stone wall at Hollin Farm as if someone had paid it to be there. Walt said it belonged to nobody and had been fed by everybody, which in an orchard meant it had its pick of windfalls and the best patch of shade under the Bramley trees. It had a ginger coat gone patchy at the shoulders and a tail it carried up like a question mark, and it watched us pick the way a magistrate watches a dull trial.

Keep reading

On the Monday I knocked over the tin of rose madder we used for marking crates, and the cat walked straight through it. Four pink pads crossed the yard, then a smear of ochre where it leaned on the barn door, then a drip of teal where it sat down among the bruised windfalls and licked its own shoulder. Walt laughed until he had to sit on a crate. 'Now you've got a painter,' he said. 'Mind she doesn't send you the bill for the wall.'

The cat was there every morning after that, and I started to think it was keeping count of us. It sat on the wall while the pickers drifted home one by one, and by the last week there were only three of us left in the rows. I had a letter in my coat pocket with a date on it and a room in a city I had never seen, and I had told no one except the cat, which did not seem bothered either way.

On the final evening I stacked the last crate by the gate. The cat jumped down, walked across the wet paint on the lid and left a tidy row of prints over the wood, bright as a signature. I did not wipe them off. I hefted the crate into the van and saw the marks still there in the dusk, a small orange trail running straight towards the road.