Small solid black paw print tattoo on the side of a finger, shown in a black and white photograph.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Small paw print on a finger

Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A small, solid black paw print with four toe pads and a main pad sits on the side of a finger. The ink is dense and mostly uniform, with no shading, and the edges are slightly soft. The photograph is black and white, with the hand filling the foreground and a blurred dark background.

Hand Paw print Paw Animal

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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 posters were curling in the damp of the wagon by the time Mab decided to sign them. Nobody had asked her to. She had worked the ring for eleven seasons, leaping the hoop in Bristol and Bath, and she knew the sound of a tin lid coming off before anybody else did. I held the sheet flat while she planted one forefoot on the pad and then on the paper, pressing hard, as if the bill were a contract she meant to be bound by.

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Harrow's Travelling Menagerie had been dying since the spring, the way old canvas goes, one seam at a time. The elephant went first, sold to a zoo in Kent for the price of a new roof. Then the horses. Dad kept the lion going on pride alone, and the lion kept us fed on gristle and rumours. Mab was the last act that still cost nothing to feed. She ate whatever the clowns threw away and slept against the stove with her chin on my boot.

On the last night, the crowd at Stroud was twelve people and a man with a dog of his own. Mab took the hoop anyway. She went through it slower each time, pausing in the middle as if listening for applause that had already left the field, then came out the other side and sat down in the sawdust like a ringmaster waiting for the band.

Afterwards I carried the bills to the lamp and found her paw print drying on the top one, four toe pads and the heel, too neat for a dog who had never been taught to write. There was a smudge of the same ink on my own finger. I didn't wash it off. The Harrow name was gone by morning, but a stranger in some other town might find that print on a wall and know that somebody had stayed to the end.