Black bold paw print above the words BROTHER BEAR in blocky hand-drawn lettering on a cream background, shown as a tattoo design rather than on skin.

Bear paw print with Brother Bear lettering

Lettering · Black and grey · Flash

A solid black bear paw print with five toe pads and a large main pad sits above the words BROTHER BEAR in chunky, hand-drawn capitals. The shapes are filled flat with no shading, and the lettering has an irregular, stencil-like edge. The design is set on a plain cream, slightly textured background and fills the frame evenly.

Lettering Bear Paw print Lettering Animal

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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 tide has left a line of prints across the wet sand below the lamp house, and you are the only one awake to see them. Broad, flat-footed, five toes in a neat arc and a heavy pad like a thumb pressed into clay. Mrs Ferrier's boy from the crofts swears it was a bear, though the nearest bear is stuffed and glass-eyed in a museum in Inverness. You crouch and lay your palm beside the nearest one. It is wider than your hand spread.

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Hamish, the relief keeper, says bears swim. He says a great many things over the kettle. The name Brother Bear was scratched into the back of the logbook by the first keeper, whose wife sang Gaelic songs to the gulls, and nobody has ever explained why. You do not know that for certain. You know the lamp must be wound at dusk, the oil counted, and that the prints lead up past the rocks where the eider nest.

At midnight you carry the lantern out. The beam sweeps the water while the tracks climb the slipway and stop at the store door, where the spare foghorn sits under a tarpaulin. Something has been sleeping there. The straw is pushed into a hollow the shape of a broad back, still warm when you lay your hand in it. Nothing is there now. One wet print sits on the lowest step, turned toward the sea, as if whoever made it had decided to go on without you.

In the morning the tracks are gone, rained out, and the tarpaulin is folded neatly, which Hamish swears he did not do. You write in the log: fog clear, wind west, visitor left before four. Then, underneath, in capitals that come out bigger than you meant, you write the name.