Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Dog head tattoo on a shoulder

Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A black dog head in profile sits on the upper shoulder, with the ears and head filled in solid black and the muzzle and cheek area left as untattooed skin. The shapes are bold and graphic, with a small dark triangle and a rounded wedge below the head. The black and white photograph is taken from behind the shoulder, with the subject's hair falling over the upper right of the frame.

Shoulder Dog Animal Silhouette

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow came over the pass before the carrier did, so Mags Harrow and I were left alone in the stone hut with a sack of oats and a stove that smoked whenever the wind swung north. She called me Biscuit, which I thought beneath a dog of my standing, but I came when she whistled, and that was a bargain we both kept.

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Each morning she walked up to the cairn at the saddle and stood with her back to the hut, looking east where the road dropped towards the town. I sat at her heel with my white blaze turned to the wind, ears stiff as slate, and waited for the bells of a mule train. Her brother Owen had driven the last one over in October and had not come back with it. She said so once, plainly, and never again.

Then, one grey afternoon, a dark speck moved on the switchbacks below. It was not a mule. It was a dog, thin and limping, its ears flat against the sleet. I was down the scree before she could whistle me back. We met halfway, nose to nose, two creatures with no business being on a mountain in winter. I brought him up in my own tracks, and when Mags saw us she knelt in the snow and said her brother's name quietly, as if checking whether it still fit.

By spring the stranger had a name of his own and a warm patch by the stove, and I had stopped watching the east road. Mags scratched two names into a strip of tin and nailed it to the cairn, mine above his. The wind has been reading them ever since, and it never once asks which of us came home first.