Small fine line black tattoo of a semicolon and three paw prints on the wrist, with a blue thread bracelet below it.

Semicolon and paw prints on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo sits on the inner wrist, showing a semicolon beside three paw prints arranged in a diagonal line. The linework is fine and the ink is black, with the paw prints filled in and the semicolon solid. The image is a close, slightly angled shot of the wrist against a plain light background, with a thin blue thread bracelet below the tattoo and a blurred butterfly print on a shirt at the left edge.

Fine line Forearm Semicolon Paw print Paw Punctuation

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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 rain has stopped by the time you reach Carrow Street, but the pavement still shines under the sodium lamps, and there they are: three small paw prints pressed into the grey, heading uphill toward the canal bridge. Biscuit has been gone since ten past eleven. You have walked this route four times already, calling her name at bins and bus shelters, feeling foolish and then not foolish at all.

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The prints stop at the railings above the towpath, then reappear on the far side of the bridge, as if she stepped over the drop without hesitating. Below, the water is black and quick. A man in a hi-vis jacket is sweeping leaves from the steps of a closed launderette, and he nods at you the way strangers do at night, as though you both belong to the same small shift. You ask him whether he has seen a brown and white terrier. He points with his broom toward the flats, where one window is still lit, and says she trotted past ten minutes ago, sure of herself, like she had an appointment.

You follow. The prints grow fainter, then clearer, then turn into a courtyard where a half-open gate sways on one hinge. Behind it, on the third step, sits Biscuit, tail sweeping slowly, beside a paper bag of chips with the vinegar still warm. She looks at you as though you are the one who has been late. You kneel on the damp concrete, clip on the lead, and tell her this is only a pause, not the end of the walk, and that there is one more street to cross before bed.

She seems to agree. You stand, and she pulls you back toward the lit window, where a thin shadow moves behind the glass and waits for you both.