My family had a really nice pet goldfish once. When we first got him, my family never named the fish because we figured he would die in a month. I mean we got him at the church bizarre because my sister threw a ring around Jesus' neck or something. He wasn't worth naming. We didn't pay any attention to him. We would go on vacations and not have anyone feed him. We'd come home and expect him to be dead. But there he was. Just kinda swimming. For 3 years. Then one day my dad made soup.
After eating the soup, my dad decided to wipe off the countertop. Like everyday, he put the bowl on the stovetop while wiping down our marble countertops. We started talking sports when all the sudden in the corner of my eye I saw the fish swimming around his bowl like crazy. He was going fucking nuts and swimming up and down and around and around like a shark was chasing after him. I watched, laughed, and then told my dad to take a look. After taking a look he jumped up right away and grabbed the bowl off the stovetop. Apparently my dad had forgot to turn off the stovetop, and we were boiling our goldfish alive.
That fish was fucked up. I kid you not. He swam upside-down for 3 hours. He was changing colors. Only one fin was working at frist. But he survived. He fuckin survived. And he finally got his name. Bernie.
After that Bernie and I were best buds. I loved feeding him his flakes after that. I'd sit near his bowl and watch him gobble those flakes up. I wouldn't tap his bowl because I had too much respect for him and I don't think he liked it. I'd gently net him while we changed out his water. We had a great boy/fish relationship.
Bernie lived another year or so before my shitty grandma overfeed him and he died one day. It was so gay. I didnt want him to die. He was such a strong fish. I really can't wait until one day I'm in Heaven and Bernie and I talk about that day. And I swear that will happen. Heaven is neat like that.