Soft-edged black and grey paw print tattoo on a forearm, with a white dog's paw resting on the wrist against a green fabric background.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Paw print tattoo on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A black and grey paw print tattoo sits on the inner forearm near the wrist, with soft, slightly blurred edges and varied ink density across the toe pads. A white dog's paw rests across the wrist above the tattoo, and the arm lies on a sage green fabric. The photograph is taken close up and from above, with the tattoo and paw filling the lower centre of the frame.

Forearm Paw print Dog Pet

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Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

At ten past three the lift on Ward 7 gave up again, so Maureen and I carried the linen trolley down the back stairs with our torches clipped to our lanyards. Nobody else was awake. The corridor smelt of antiseptic and cold toast, and somewhere below us the boiler ticked like a clock with a grudge.

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Halfway down we heard the nails on the concrete. Mr Oduya's old collie, Tess, had slipped her lead in the car park and come in through the ambulance bay, and she was sitting on the bottom step as if someone had asked her to wait. Her coat was grey at the muzzle and nearly white at the feet. When Maureen knelt, Tess lifted one paw and rested it on my sleeve, very deliberately, the way she had at the bedside every Thursday since the spring, and held it there while we looked at each other.

Mr Oduya had gone up to the hospice on Sunday. Nobody had told the dog. Maureen rang the number on the tag, and a grandson answered from a car park somewhere across town, his voice thick with the hour and something else. He said he would come, and that she should keep Tess by the doors where it was warm.

We sat on the bottom step with her between us while the boiler ticked. When Tess stood to shake herself, she left a clean print on the dusty sill of the stairwell window, every pad sharp as a stamp, the toes spreading the way they do when a dog is sure of her ground. Maureen touched it with one finger before the cleaners could find it in the morning, and said nothing, and neither did I.