My Dad Accidentally Cooked My Pet Fish—So I Named Every Fish After Him

When I was about ten years old, I became completely obsessed with fish.

I wanted an aquarium. Then I wanted a bigger aquarium. Then I wanted to learn about every kind of fish that existed.

My dad eventually gave in and told me I could have one fish.

Naturally, I immediately tried to negotiate.

"Can I get a big fish, Dad?"

He looked at me for a few seconds before sighing.

"Fine. But one."

That was how Randy came into our family.

Randy was a decent-sized fish, and I was completely attached to him. His tank sat on the kitchen counter, and I spent hours sitting nearby watching him swim around.

I knew exactly where he liked to hide, when he usually came to the surface, and how he would follow my finger along the glass.

Then one afternoon, my dad came home with a large bag of assorted fish that he had bought for dinner.

He put the fish on the cutting board beside the kitchen sink and walked away for a minute to grab something.

Unfortunately, Randy had other plans.

Somehow, he managed to jump out of his tank.

I still have no idea how a fish that size managed to make it that far.

He landed on the cutting board.

My dad came back into the kitchen a moment later, saw the fish, and assumed it was one of the fish he had just brought home.

He had absolutely no idea what had happened.

Later that evening, we sat down for dinner.

I glanced toward the kitchen counter.

Randy wasn't in his tank.

I got up and looked around.

Maybe he was hiding.

Then I noticed a small splash of water near the cutting board.

I stopped.

I looked at the board.

Then at the tank.

Then back at the board.

Everything suddenly made sense.

"DAD!"

He looked up from his dinner.

"You killed Randy!"

He stared at me.

"What?"

"Randy! My fish!"

My dad's expression changed.

He looked toward the kitchen.

Then toward me.

Then back toward the kitchen.

"Oh."

He finally understood.

I was devastated.

My dad felt terrible, especially because he hadn't even known it was Randy. He apologized several times, but I was too upset to care.

Then, instead of telling me that it was just a fish or trying to convince me to forget about it, he grabbed his keys.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"We're going back to the fish store."

So that night, my dad bought me another fish.

It wasn't Randy, obviously, but I decided there was only one appropriate name.

Randy 2.0.

Randy 2.0 lived for a very long time.

And eventually, when I was older, I got another fish of my own.

You can probably guess what I named him.

Randy 3.0.

He's still with me today.

My girlfriend knows him simply as Randy.

She has no idea that his name is part of a family history involving one extremely unfortunate fish, one distracted father, and a cutting board.

And honestly, I think I'll keep that story to myself for a little longer.