Small solid black silhouette tattoo of a dachshund on the ankle and side of a bare foot, with blue painted toenails, on a patterned rug.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dachshund silhouette on an ankle

Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black silhouette of a dachshund in profile sits on the outer ankle, just above the side of the foot. The dog is shown in a simple, flat fill with no shading or interior detail. The photo is taken indoors on a wooden floor, with a dark and grey patterned mat and wooden cabinets in the background, and the ink reads as black on skin.

Ankle Dog Silhouette Animal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit yourselves down, and mind the kettle, because this is where Mrs Pollard lost the dog. Her boarding house stood on the front at Cromer with eleven rooms, a brass knocker shaped like a fish, and one dachshund called Tuppence. He was long as a loaf and twice as stubborn, and he had a gift for getting under things no sensible dog would fit beneath, which is how the trouble started.

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The storm came in off the North Sea on a Tuesday in October, the kind that peels slates off the chapel and drops them in the vicar's marrow bed. The power went at six. Mrs Pollard lit the paraffin lamps, counted her guests twice over, and found Tuppence was not among them. She went down to the cellar with a candle in one hand and a tin of pilchards in the other, calling his name in the voice she saved for drunk fishermen and the gas man.

Water was creeping under the cellar door by then, black and smelling of tar. She found him at last behind the coal chute, pressed flat as a draught excluder and growling at nothing. Clamped in his jaws was a brass key on a length of fishing line, and tied to the line was a scrap of card in a hand she had not seen in thirty years. It gave the number of a room on the top floor, the one her husband had locked the week before he sailed and never opened again. She tucked the card in her apron and carried the dog up the stairs.

Afterwards she said the lamps burned steadier the rest of that night, and the dog slept on the hearth with his long shadow stretched up the wallpaper like a stroke of ink. If you go to Cromer you can still see that key hanging on the hook by the register, and Tuppence's grandson asleep beneath it, low and black and entirely unbothered by the sea.