By Ashley Neary-Greenhouse
Graham hated his name because all the kids called him Graham Cracker. He asked his mom if he could change it, but she said, “No. I love the name, besides, who doesn’t like graham crackers? It’s the first ingredient in s’mores!”
Graham collected chocolate frogs and had almost all the cards that came with them until his dog ate every one of the thirteen he’d collected, and he lost interest. The dog had been a gift for his thirteenth birthday. He asked for a chocolate Lab, and she arrived early in the morning wearing a yellow ribbon around her chubby puppy neck. He named her Nutella, and they played together every day after school because Graham was a loner.
He read books under a big sycamore tree in the pet cemetery by his house while Nutella bathed in the sun and peed on old headstones marking the graves of dogs, cats, monkeys, parakeets, and a horse. People thought it was weird that he hung out there, but he thought it was the perfect hiding spot. No one bothered him.
That was until a Sunday afternoon in May. He was reading Ancient Civilizations, absorbed in an article about the study of ancient fecal matter and the protozoan responsible for dysentery, when an old man approached. Nutella, toxically friendly, greeted him by violently slapping her tail into his thigh. The man laughed loudly, startling Graham so much that he tore the page he was reading. Irritated, Graham got up and walked away, ignoring him. Nutella hesitated, then followed her boy.
The next afternoon, Graham returned with a copy of National Geographic, looking forward to reading about penguins until the man appeared again. Nutella bolted toward him, muscular tail wagging. He knew dogs were good at reading people so he thought maybe he should hear him out.
The old man introduced himself as, “Stephen, with a ‘ph’.”
Graham didn’t introduce himself. He muttered “Oh, like the pH scale.”
Stephen explained that he had a dog named Plank who looked just like Nutella and was buried just a few paces from the sycamore tree. Plank lived to fifteen before dying of lymphoma. Stephen hadn’t been able to visit for weeks due to his own health, but now he was back and he had a plan. He was going to spray paint Plank’s headstone. Graham found this strange, but he appreciated strange.
“What color?” he asked.
“Taxicab yellow,” Stephen said.
“Why taxicab yellow?
Stephen replied, “Because taxicab yellow is scientifically proven to be the easiest color to spot in a crowd. That’s why taxicabs are yellow! The pet cemetery is so crowded, I figured it would be much easier to find Plank if his headstone is taxicab yellow!”
Graham considered this. It made sense but he wondered if it was legal.
“Are you allowed to spray paint Plank’s headstone such a bright color?”
“Technically, it’s against the law. But what are they gonna do to an old man trying to find his dog? Fine me? Who cares! I’m old and not long of this world!”
Stephen asked if Graham had a pet buried there. Graham said he just liked to read under the tree. Stephen didn’t seem to judge him.
“I can be your lookout if you want,” Graham said.
“I’d appreciate that,” Stephen said.
They walked to Plank’s grave. Stephen grew quiet but said Plank had lived a life full of adventures.
“Why’d you name him Plank?” Graham asked.
Stephen smiled. “It’s short for Plankton. He was found swimming in the ocean off Catalina Island. Authorities guessed he’d been in the water for some thirteen hours, just drifting with the current, the same way plankton do. They called him Max the Miracle. I brought him home, gave him a warm bed, and decided he deserved a better name. Plankton became Plank.”
Stephen, Graham, and Nutella met weekly to check Plank’s headstone, which had been repainted by cemetery employees like clockwork. Graham acted as lookout each time Stephen repainted it taxicab yellow. After a few months, the cemetery threatened to remove the headstone. This did not deter Stephen. He seemed to get a thrill from it.
The repainting continued for almost a year until the day Stephen was a no-show. Graham saw that Plank’s headstone was restored to its original color again, but a bright yellow leash—the color of a taxicab—was draped over it, a note addressed to Graham pinned to it.
Dear Graham,
I hate to surprise you like this, but I figured it was the best way to break the news. If you’re reading this letter, it means I have been reunited with Plank. I have asked to be buried here next to him. I would appreciate it if you and Nutella attended my service. My wife and daughter will attend. I’ve told them all about you. They look forward to meeting you. They know something that you don’t—how much happiness you and Nutella have brought me in my final months. You have been a faithful friend. You have made me feel young again. You have performed heroically as lookout on our repainting missions. Please do not be too saddened by my passing. Try to remember that, like Plank, I have lived a long life filled with adventures. Stay close to Nutella. Cherish each moment with her. When the time comes for Nutella to join me and Plank, please consider burying her under your sycamore tree.
Always faithful,
Stephen J. Pless
P.S. This leash belonged to Plank. I know you’ll appreciate the color.
The day after Stephen’s headstone was installed next to Plank’s, Graham painted them both taxicab yellow.
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Ashley Neary-Greenhouse studies creative writing at Boise State University. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, Paper Plane Press, Jackdaw Press, The Sheepshead Review and The Lindenwood Review. She is the winner of The Lindenwood Review’s 2025 undergrad flash fiction contest.