Colourful tattoo of a dachshund in blue, violet, teal and pink painterly blocks of shading, on the inner forearm against a black background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dachshund on a forearm

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A dachshund sits facing forward with its head slightly tilted, drawn with dark outlines and large round eyes. The body is built from soft, overlapping patches of blue, violet, teal and pink shading that give a watercolour-like, blended effect. The dog is centred on a forearm against a plain black background.

Forearm Dog

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tomasz had the ovens lit by half past four and the dough rising in its tins, but the long-bodied dog that slept among the flour sacks was nowhere to be seen. For nine winters at the bakery on Quarry Lane, Bramble had been there first, nose against the warm bricks, one ear always folded inside out. This morning the sacks were empty and the back door stood open to the frost.

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He took the torch into the lane. The cobbles were white and the sky above the chimney pots was the colour of cold slate, with a thin blue line along the bottom where the day was thinking about arriving. He followed the small prints to the canal bridge. Bramble sat at the edge of the towpath, very upright, head tipped to one side, staring down at the black water as if something had called her name from under it.

"You'll catch your death," Tomasz said. The dog did not turn around. Below the bridge, a boy from the boatyard was tangled in a fishing line, his foot gone numb and his voice gone thin with shouting. Tomasz had no way down the bank in the dark. Bramble had already gone, low and quick along the stones, and she came back up barking until the lock-keeper's lamp came on and two men came running with a rope.

By the time the first loaves came out, the lane was full of neighbours and the boy was wrapped in a flour-dusted blanket, drinking tea from a jam jar. Tomasz tore the heel from a warm loaf and set it down for the dog. She ate it sitting bolt upright, ears level, as though the whole night had been her own idea. Then she walked back to the sacks, turned round three times, and slept until the shop bell rang.