Colour realism style tattoo on the side ribs of a torso showing a terrier in a pirate hat and eyepatch, a fluffy white dog, a small creature in a red scarf and spiral snail shells.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pirate terrier and fluffy dog on ribs

Realism · Ribs · Colour · Photo

A colour tattoo covers the side of the ribs and flank, showing a small terrier dressed as a pirate with an eyepatch, a plumed hat and striped clothing. Below it sit a large fluffy white dog with a dark nose, a small creature wearing a red scarf, and a cluster of spiral shells on the right. The rendering uses soft shading and blended colour across the fur and clothing, and the figures are arranged to follow the curve of the body.

Realism Ribs Dog Pirate Creature

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tide has already turned by the time the harbour bell of Thrumm stops ringing, and you are still arguing with the terrier about the map. Captain Bartholomew Scrap wears his eyepatch over the eye he claims a gull took, though you have caught him winking with it. He insists the treasure lies beneath the spiral shells of the Marrow Shallows, where the old queen of Thrumm was said to have buried her crown in a barrow of gold leaf and snail shell.

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The fluffy white dog, Duchess Mab, refuses to board because she considers the sea damp and beneath her. She sits on the quay with her dark nose lifted to the fog, sniffing as though the whole ocean owes her an apology. Pim, the mudlark who once stowed away in a biscuit tin, has already scrambled up the rigging in his red scarf. From the crow's nest he reports that the shells are humming, a low sound like a kettle thinking about boiling.

You row out in the grey dawn with the captain's oar knocking against your knee. As the boat drifts over the shallows, the shells turn slowly on their stalks, each one a small eye that follows you across the water. Pim unwinds his scarf and ties it to the bow as a flag of truce. The snails do not accept it. Scrap draws his cutlass on a mussel, announces that he has been wrong before, and then, with great ceremony, digs.

At dusk you find no gold and no crown, only a rusted biscuit tin. Inside is a folded letter in a neat, damp hand: The sea is damp. Keep the crown and the shells. Love, Mab. Scrap reads it twice, pockets the tin, and declares it the finest treasure in all of Thrumm. For once, you agree with him.