Black and grey realistic tattoo of a dog's face on a forearm, with the words my heart my soul in script beside it.

Realistic dog portrait and script on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close view of a realistic black and grey portrait of a dog's face, showing soft shaded fur, whiskers, a dark nose and detailed eyes. The portrait fills the forearm, with the phrase my heart my soul in flowing script running along the wrist side. The background is blurred and neutral, keeping the focus on the shading and fur texture.

Realism Lettering Forearm Dog Pet Script

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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

The bin lorry cab smelled of diesel and wet cardboard, and Biscuit had claimed the middle seat before I got the door shut. Nobody at the depot liked a dog in the cab, but Gary on the late round said the council's rules were written by people who had never done a Thursday night in Ancoats. So she rode with us from ten until the last lorry went back under the arches at five, her grey chin on my knee, watching the streetlights slide past as if they owed her money.

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On the third Thursday in February she wasn't in the cab when we pulled out. I found her at the bottom of Redhill Street, sitting square on the lock gates by the canal, nose pointed at the black water. The bridge lamp laid a yellow stripe across her muzzle and turned the grey to silver. She didn't look round when I called her name. She just kept watching the water, as if someone had dropped something in there and she was waiting for it to surface.

I sat on the wet step beside her while the engine ticked behind us and Gary shouted something about the schedule. A train crossed the viaduct, the canal shivered, and for a second I thought a shape turned beneath the surface. It was only a rusted bike frame lying sideways in the reeds, but Biscuit stood up and wagged the whole back half of herself, and I understood she had been keeping watch over it for weeks.

We never learned who she had been waiting for. Gary reckoned a fisherman, I reckoned nobody, and the canal kept its own counsel. That night I took her home on the last bus with her head on my knee the whole way. At the kitchen window I stood a while looking at the orange glow over the rooftops, and she came and leaned against my leg, as if to say the watching could stop now.