Small black paw print tattoo with a heart inside the main pad, on the inner wrist and forearm of a light-skinned arm.

Paw print with heart on a wrist

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small black paw print tattoo sits on the inner wrist, made of four toe pads above a larger pad outline with a small heart drawn inside it. The lines are solid and uniform in black ink, with no shading or other colour. The photograph is taken at an angle with the hand raised, and the tattoo is set against plain skin and a beige upholstered surface.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You take the stairs because the lift in Hollis House has been broken since the February storm, and the notice on its doors has curled at the corners. Eleven floors. On the ninth landing someone is frying onions, and behind the door of 9C a terrier is barking the way it has every evening since you moved in. Mrs Adeyemi insists he is a cushion with opinions and not a dog at all, which is a fine thing to say about a dog that weighs more than your handbag.

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Pickle goes missing on a Tuesday. Mrs Adeyemi knocks at seven with her cardigan buttoned wrong, saying the back door of the bin store was propped open again by the lads from the scaffolding. You go down together. You check the bin store, the car park, the strip of grass by the bus shelter where the wind rolls crisp packets in circles. Then you see them: a trail of small wet prints across the concrete of the service ramp, four round toe pads above one larger pad, pressed into the puddles like someone has been stamping a message for you to follow.

The trail leads round the back of the stairwell to the boiler cupboard, whose door hangs off one hinge. Pickle is curled on a folded tarpaulin with half a bag of salt and vinegar crisps he has clearly stolen from somebody. He looks at you as if you are the one who is late. When you lift him he licks your chin, and Mrs Adeyemi makes a noise that is half sob and half scolding.

You carry him back up all eleven floors. He is heavier than you remember, and somewhere around the sixth landing he stops wriggling and simply lets you hold him, paws tucked in, the way you'd carry a sleeping child. Outside 9C, Mrs Adeyemi fumbles her keys and says, to nobody in particular, that the lift will be fixed by the summer. Neither of you believes her, and neither of you minds.

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