A sleeping fawn pug puppy rests on a forearm with bold colour traditional tattoos, including a red rose, and letter tattoos across the fingers.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Pug puppy resting on traditional forearm tattoos

Traditional · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A small fawn pug puppy with its eyes closed rests against a person's forearm. The forearm carries bold, solid-outlined colour tattoos in a traditional style, including a red rose and a nautical scene, while the fingers have letter tattoos across the knuckles. Colour ink dominates the composition, with the puppy in soft focus against the arm.

Traditional Forearm Hand Pug Dog Rose Nautical Hand

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The pup came aboard at Grimsby in a fish box, wrapped in a sack that smelt of herring, and Captain Mabry swore she'd be over the side by the next tide. She was a fawn scrap with a face like a crumpled glove, and she would not be sick, not once, through the whole crossing, which is more than could be said for me.

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We named her Dolly after the barmaid at the Bell, because she had the same way of sizing up a man and finding him wanting. She slept in the crook of my arm when I took the night watch, chin on my wrist, one paw hooked over the rail. The bosun said that was no way to keep a dog. I said it was the only way to keep myself awake, because she snored like a bellows and I'd not have dared drop off with her there.

Off the Dogger the swell came up grey and wrong, and the lamp in the galley went out. Mabry came up the ladder cursing, and in the dark I felt for the rope and found her instead, cold and shivering on the wet planks. I tucked her inside my oilskin. She didn't whimper. Mabry said nothing, just stood beside me with his fists locked on the line, and we rode out the next three hours like that: two grown men holding on, and one pug holding on harder.

Dawn came up pale over Flamborough and the sea lay down like a tired dog. Dolly woke, sneezed on my collar, and looked at the land as if she'd ordered it up herself. Mabry lit his pipe and said the ship's book would need a new name entered against the watch. I said nothing. She already had one, and I'd had it inked across my knuckles in Hull the winter before, where the blue had gone soft with salt.