Photograph of a small cream dog face with black eyes and nose inside an orange triangle, tattooed on the upper shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dog face in an orange triangle on a shoulder

Shoulder · Mixed · Photo

A fluffy cream dog face with dark eyes and a black nose faces forward inside a solid orange-red triangle. The linework is soft and simple, with the dog's fur shown through pale shading and the triangle filled with flat colour. The tattoo sits on the top of a shoulder, with a dark vest top and reddish hair visible at the edges of the frame.

Shoulder Dog Triangle Pet portrait

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The third coat of orange was still tacky when Dorrie carried the dog up the iron stairs, Pudding kicking and complaining the whole way. The daymark on the seaward wall had faded to the colour of weak squash, and the harbour board wanted it bright before the autumn gales. Dorrie did not mind the ladder. What she minded was the poodle, a cream curl of a dog who had decided the lamp room belonged to him and would not be coaxed off the sill.

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He sat there now with his ears up, watching the grey water pick out the fishing boats one by one. Dorrie painted the triangle in long, careful strokes, her brush sliding along the edge of the glass. When she had finished she stood back, wiped her fingers on her apron, and found Pudding looking at her with the expression of a dog who had spotted a mistake and would not be mentioning it.

The fog came in at dusk, the way it always did in October, rolling over the breakwater like wet wool. Dorrie lit the lamp and listened for the boats. Somewhere past the buoy, Tom Reilly's engine coughed and went quiet. She knew what that meant. He had lost the harbour mouth. She climbed to the lamp room with her heart going hard and found Pudding on the sill, barking at the fog in short, furious bursts, the way he barked at the postman.

Dorrie swung the beam wide, and the orange triangle caught the light and glowed like a coal through the murk. Pudding's cream face sat in the middle of it, edged in gold. Out in the grey, the engine started again. Within the hour the boat slid past the breakwater with its lamps lit and Tom's arm raised in greeting, and the dog barked until the last of the hull had cleared the rocks. Then he sat down, satisfied, and did not get off the sill for the rest of the night.