Part 6: The Funeral with No Applause
There was no crowd. No folding chairs. No flowers on stands. Just a man, his son, and a handmade bench beneath an old spruce tree.
Basil’s funeral wasn’t in a chapel. It wasn’t streamed online. It didn’t make the local paper, not even a line in the obituaries. But it happened — and to Ellis Merrow, that mattered more than all the applause in the world.
They chose Sunday afternoon.
The sun broke through the gray for the first time in days. Melted snow dripped from the eaves of the porch. It tapped the railing like soft applause from heaven.
Isaac wore the only black jacket he owned. Too tight in the shoulders. A little short at the wrists. He didn’t care. He carried the wooden carving of Basil, the one he and Ellis had finished the night before — small, rough, but shaped with love.
Ellis wore his janitor’s coat. The same one he wore that night. Still had the bleach stain on the sleeve. Still smelled faintly of old wax and pine. He hadn’t washed it.
“I want him to know I came as I was,” Ellis said.
They stood by the grave. Just the two of them and the wind.
Isaac cleared his throat. Looked down at the ground. Then began:
“He wasn’t just a dog.
He was a hallway shadow. A quiet comfort.
A breath against your knee when you didn’t think anyone noticed you were crying.
He didn’t need words to understand. He just needed you to exist.
And he never left.”
His voice broke on the last line. But he didn’t stop. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. It was creased and smudged. Clarice’s letter.
Isaac didn’t read it aloud. He just kissed the corner, folded it once more, and tucked it beneath the wooden carving. Then placed the carving gently against the small headstone Ellis had built from river rock.
Ellis stepped forward. Said nothing.
Instead, he bent down and placed a mop handle beside the grave. Not the one he used every day — this one was carved from cedar. On the shaft was etched:
“He cleaned more than floors. He cleaned hearts.”
Isaac chuckled softly through the tears. “Mom would’ve rolled her eyes at that.”
“She would’ve,” Ellis said. “Then stitched it on a pillow.”
They stood there until the light shifted and the shadows grew longer. Neither spoke for a while. The breeze rustled the spruce branches, sending needles falling like green confetti.
Finally, Isaac broke the silence.
“Why do people only say thank you after someone’s gone?” he asked.
Ellis sighed. “Because grief sharpens our memory. Makes us realize what we never said out loud.”
Isaac looked down at the grave, then up at his father. “I’m not waiting anymore.”
He turned. Faced Ellis fully.
“I’m proud of you,” he said. “I should’ve said it sooner, but I am. I don’t care what job you do. You raised me. You stayed. That means more than anything else.”
Ellis blinked. The tears came before he could stop them. But he didn’t wipe them away.
“Your mother would be proud of you too,” he said. “She always said you’d find your way.”
“She was right,” Isaac said. “I just needed a little help getting there.”
He looked back at Basil’s grave.
“And someone to guard the path.”
The next day at school, Ellis went back to cleaning as usual. The only difference was the way people looked at him.
Some nodded. A few smiled. One teacher — a young woman new to the district — brought him coffee and said, “My kid talks about you. Says you’re the only adult in this building who actually listens.”
Ellis nodded, said thank you, and went back to mopping. He didn’t need a trophy. Didn’t need a headline.
But one thing did catch him off guard.
He passed by the counselor’s office, and on the bulletin board outside was a drawing — crayon on lined paper. A lopsided dog with big ears and a crooked tail. Above it, a child had written:
“Basil. He was brave. He loved us even when we were sad.”
Ellis stared at it a long time. Then took a thumbtack from his pocket — something he always kept — and pinned a small note beside the picture.
It read:
“Thank you for remembering him. He never forgot you.”
That evening, Isaac waited by the garage with a bundle of mail in hand. He flipped through it — bills, coupons, a catalog — then paused.
One envelope was handwritten. No return address.
He opened it.
Inside was a photo. Slightly blurry. Clearly printed from a phone. It showed Basil, walking beside Ellis in the hallway, mop cart in the background. Taken days before the lockdown.
Below the image was a single line of text:
“He was the best part of this place.”
Isaac stared at the photo a long time. Then brought it inside and placed it on the mantel beside the carving.
That night, the two Merrows sat on the porch bench beneath the spruce tree. The air had turned crisp again, stars just beginning to show through the clouds.
Ellis held a cup of chamomile tea. Isaac held nothing — just his thoughts.
After a while, Isaac said, “Do you think dogs know when they’ve done enough?”
Ellis looked up at the sky, then down at the ground.
“I think they don’t care about enough,” he said. “They just love until they can’t anymore. And that’s usually more than enough.”
Isaac leaned back, head against the wood they’d shaped with their hands.
And beneath them, under a blanket of quiet earth and evergreen, the dog that never left — still stayed.