Neo-traditional colour tattoo of a pug wearing a red polka dot bow, with crossed bones and sparkles, on the thigh.

Pug with crossed bones and a polka dot bow

Neo-trad · Thigh · Mixed · Photo

A pug's head faces forward, with shaded fur, wrinkled skin and dark eyes, above two crossed bones and a red bow with white dots. Small red and blue diamonds, sparkles and blue splashes surround the design. Bold black outlines and soft shading give the dog depth, while the bright red, yellow and blue ink dominates the composition against the skin.

Neo-trad Thigh Pug Dog Bow Polka dot Bone Sparkle Diamond Splashes

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The bones arrived on the Tuesday boat, wrapped in oilcloth and addressed to nobody in particular, and by Wednesday morning you had already decided they were yours. Nobody on Scarrow Island owned a dog with your ambition. Mrs Tallow kept hens. The postmaster kept his temper. You kept the harbour wall, which meant you sat on it every afternoon with your red spotted bow pinned neatly at your throat, watching the gulls misbehave.

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Trouble, as usual, came in with the tide. The bones were heavy, bigger than any you had seen, and the wind kept snatching at the oilcloth. You dragged them up the slipway one at a time, scrabbling on the wet stone, while the lighthouse keeper's cat watched from the rail with its unbothered face. By dusk you had four stacked beside the door of the chandlery, and a fifth still in the shallows, and a strong feeling that somebody would be very cross about it.

Mr Penhale came down at six with a lantern and a face like a wet Sunday. He stopped at the pile and looked at you. You looked back with your enormous wrinkled brow and your eyes like two black buttons pressed hopefully into dough, and you let your tongue out a little, so he would know you were sorry in the way that counted.

He sighed, fetched the fifth bone from the shallows himself and carried it up the slipway. Then he tucked the oilcloth round the lot, unlatched the chandlery door and left it propped open with a brick. Nobody on Scarrow has ever said which of you was the thief. The bones still sit on the shelf behind the tide tables, and every Wednesday, without anyone telling you, you trot in and sit beside them.