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

Realistic dog portrait with script on forearm

Realism · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a large, realistic dog portrait tattooed across the forearm, showing the head, nose, whiskers and watery eyes. The fur is rendered with fine, soft shading in black and grey, with strong contrast in the dark areas around the eyes and muzzle. To the right, the handwritten script reads my heart my soul, and the blurred background suggests an indoor setting.

Realism Lettering Forearm Dog Portrait Fur Eye Script

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The lift at Calder House had been out since Tuesday, so Nadia took the stairs with Moss pulling ahead of her, nose down, tail going like a metronome. By the ninth landing the concrete smelled of damp and somebody's fried onions, and she had to stop and let the old dog sniff the skirting board while she caught her breath. Moss had been her father's, a grizzled lurcher cross with eyes the colour of weak tea, and he had not left the fourteenth floor flat since the funeral except to be walked twice a day by her.

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Today the walk was Mr Doyle's idea. He lived across the landing and had kept a biscuit tin on his windowsill for years, and now he sat in his doorway in a cardigan, holding out a bag of carrots as if they might argue. "He's looking at the window again," he said. "Every evening, same spot." Nadia didn't need telling. Moss stood by the glass at the end of the walkway, staring over the car park toward the canal, the way he had stared at the door when Dad's key turned in the lock.

They went down at dusk. The lift was still dead, so they took the stairs one more time, Moss slower now, and she felt the lead go slack in her hand. At the bottom the car park lamps had come on, orange and buzzing. The dog trotted to the bench where Dad used to smoke, sat down on it as neatly as a man, and looked up at her with those tired, wet eyes.

She sat beside him and scratched the grey patch behind his ear where Dad always did. Up on the fourteenth floor, the kitchen light was still on, the way Dad always left it. Moss leaned his whole weight against her knee and sighed, and for once she did not hurry him back.