Small black Hebrew script lettering tattooed on the inner wrist, with a black and white French bulldog resting its head on the hand.

Small Hebrew script tattoo on a wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a hand resting under the chin of a black and white French bulldog, with a small tattoo of Hebrew script on the inner wrist. The lettering is thin, dark and set in a plain sans-serif style, and it sits just above a rose gold link watch. The soft, warm lighting and white bedding fill the background, with the dog's face sharp and the wrist in focus.

Lettering Forearm Dog

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Margaret Tully had been at sea for nineteen days when the dog refused to leave the hold. The Pelican Star was a grain carrier out of Immingham, bound for Montreal by the northern route, and the crew had long since stopped asking why the cook kept a French bulldog in his bunk. Bramble had come aboard as a pup tucked inside a fisherman's oilskin, and he had never once been seasick, which the second mate held against him.

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On the twentieth night the swell came up out of the Atlantic like a rumour, and the ship groaned in her frames. Margaret went down with a torch and found Bramble wedged behind a stack of pallets, his black head low, staring at the bulkhead where the lamp swung. She crouched on the cold plates and called his name in the flat Grimsby voice she used on him at home, and he did not come. Instead he shuffled sideways and showed her what he had been guarding.

Under the tarpaulin lay Ledger, the ship's grey cat, who had been missing since Halifax and whom everyone had written off as a casualty of the wind. He was thin as a rope and furious about it. Margaret wrapped him in her jumper, and Bramble walked ahead of her up the companionway at a stately pace, pausing on every step so the stairs would know who was in charge.

In the morning the second mate came to the galley to apologise to the dog, which nobody had ever seen him do. Bramble ignored him and leaned his heavy shoulder against the cook's leg, the way he always did when he had decided something belonged to him. Margaret watched the grey water slide past the porthole and thought that family was simply the people who came back down into the dark for you, and she did not say so out loud, because the cook would have laughed.