Small fine line tattoo of a French bulldog head with red inner ears on the lower back above jeans, beside a photo of a white French bulldog.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

French bulldog head tattoo on lower back

Fine line · Back · Mixed · Photo

The left panel shows a small tattoo of a French bulldog head in outline, with a solid black line and pinkish-red fill in the ears, on skin above the waistband of blue denim jeans. The right panel is a photograph of a cream-coloured French bulldog wearing a dark collar and sitting in a car seat, which the tattoo appears to mirror. The tattoo is simply drawn and centred, with a plain background of skin and denim.

Fine line Back Dog Portrait

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

By the third week of June the runner beans had climbed past the fence and Mr Okonedo's marrow was the size of a cricket bat, and you had stopped pretending the ground was yours to keep. Gert, the cream bulldog from number nine, had decided the allotment belonged to her. Every morning she squeezed through the gap under the hedge with her ears up like two folded envelopes, sniffed the compost heap as if it owed her money, and sat down in the middle of the carrot row.

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You tried a lead, then a bucket of split plums, then the sort of scolding you usually save for pigeons. Nothing moved her. What she wanted, it turned out, was the old wheelbarrow tipped against the shed, under which somebody had buried a tin of bent nails, a horseshoe and a glass fishing float the colour of weak tea. She dug it out on the Tuesday and dropped the float at your feet like a verdict.

Mrs Abernethy on the next plot said the float came off a boat her husband lost off Lyme in 1971, and that he would have wanted it in the sea. You said that seemed unlikely for a float that had spent fifty years under a shed. She looked at the dog, and the dog looked back, and neither of them blinked, which you took to mean the matter was settled in the dog's favour.

By August you had stopped minding. The float sat on the windowsill beside the spare seed packets, and on the evening the gate latch clicked and two pointed ears rose above the hedge, you filled the kettle for two cups out of habit. Gert trotted in, sat down exactly where the last of the sun had been, and waited for you to notice she had come back.