Black and grey dotwork tattoo of a wild cat face with spotted markings on an upper arm, beside a rolled-up dark patterned sleeve.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Wild cat face on upper arm

Dotwork · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A front-facing wild cat face with spotted and striped markings, rendered mainly in stippled dots and shaded greys. The eyes and nose are detailed with fine dark outlines, and whisker lines fan out below the muzzle. The tattoo is centred on the outer upper arm, with the skin around it and a rolled shirt sleeve visible in the frame.

Dotwork Realism Upper arm Cat Animal Face Spots

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Now then, shush, the lot of you, and pass that bottle down before Ted starts up again. You want the story of the cat or you'd rather sit there looking at your shoes? Right. Nineteen fifty-two, the Palais above the ironmongers in Harrowgate, and the last waltz had just come round when the fire door at the back blew open and in walked a wild cat the size of a fox cub, moving across the sprung boards as if it had paid the rent on them.

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Spotted all over, like someone had flicked wet ink at it, with dark stripes down the cheeks where the light caught it grey. Nobody screamed. Mrs Dunmore at the cloakroom just set down her knitting. The couples parted like a dropped deck of cards, and the cat walked straight down the middle and stopped under the chandelier to look at every one of us with those eyes, green as bottle glass and steady as a magistrate.

Ted Ashby on the drums had been doing his best to keep time, and he went quiet with his sticks raised, because the cat had turned its face to him. It didn't hiss. It just held him there, the way you hold a note at the end of a song until the room forgets to breathe. Then it sat, tail curled round its paws, and waited for the music to start again. And Ted, bless him, counted it in.

Nobody danced with it, mind. We danced round it, which is a different thing entirely. Near one o'clock it rose, stretched, and went out the way it came. Come morning the only trace was a single whisker stuck to the drum skin, fine and dark as a stitch. Ted kept it in his wallet until the day he died. Pass me that bottle, then. The night isn't done with us yet.