Small blue fine-line outline tattoo on a forearm, with a tan and white dog resting its chin on the wrist.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small outline tattoo on forearm with dog

Fine line · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A tan, brown and white dog rests its chin on a person's wrist, with the forearm extending down towards the bottom of the frame. A small, simple outline tattoo in blue ink sits on the forearm, drawn with thin, unshaded linework. The composition is a close, top-down shot on a pale wooden floor, with the tattoo and the dog's face as the main points of interest.

Fine line Forearm Dog Outline Wrist

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The dog was waiting at the Feeneys' gate again when you came up the hill with the post, chin resting on the top bar as though he had paid for the view. Nobody in Hollin Bridge claimed him. Mrs Feeney said he had come in on the Leeds lorry in the spring, and the butcher's boy swore half the street had fed him and none of it owned him. You gave him the crust from your sandwich, because a stray in a town like that was a sort of weather, something everyone complained about and nobody stopped. He took it gently, the way a man takes change he is not sure is his, then leaned his whole weight against you and sighed while the brown envelopes went soft in your arms in the rain.

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By October letters had started going missing from the Feeneys' box and turning up in the church porch, tied with string. Everyone blamed the dog. You knew better, because the string was the same blue twine your father used on the allotment, and because on Thursday you watched the animal carry a telegram up Mill Lane in his teeth as carefully as a cat with a kitten. He went straight to the widow Ashworth's step and sat down there, tail sweeping the flagstones, until she came out in her apron and read the thing standing up.

It was not bad news, though the paper shook in her hands for a long while. Her son was alive and had been moved to a camp with a proper post office, and the message had come by the long road from Yokohama, two months late and nearly lost in a sack. She looked at the dog, then at you, and said nothing, which in Hollin Bridge was the highest praise going.

The next morning the dog was at the gate again, chin on the bar, watching you come up the hill. You had one letter for the widow in your satchel, its corner chewed, and you did not mind at all.