Way back in the mid-’70s, I was fishing with my cousin at Loch Lomond in the Santa Cruz Mountains. The bite was slow, but the day was good. We kept moving, trying different spots, until we found a massive stump near the shore. It sat in eight feet of water, its roots twisting in every direction. A perfect hideout.

We dropped our lines, simple rigs, just a couple of split shots and a small hook tipped with worm. Turns out, the stump was loaded with green sunfish. Big ones. Some pushing half a pound. We started hauling them in, one after another. I was so busy netting my cousin’s fish and baiting her hook that I barely had time to fish myself.

By the time we got home, we had a mess of sunfish. A few were still flopping around. Green sunfish are tough. Hardy little things. So I decided to keep one.

He lived in a 10-gallon tank in my bedroom, right next to my little black-and-white TV. I had him for years. He ate from my hand. He was curious, always watching, always at the edge of the tank, staring at the TV like he was following along.

These days, it’s illegal in California to move live fish from one spot to another. Probably for the best. But that little guy? Unforgettable.