Rover from Dover

I grew up in Wilmington, Delaware, about an hour from the Delaware shore. When my brothers were about 10, I think, my dad took them down to Southern Delaware to do some fishing. I can remember a couple fishing trips growing up, but this was the only one that anyone actually caught something.
When my dad and my brothers came home, my brother Albert was carrying something long, black and shiny. My mom asked my dad if they caught anything. "Nope, just that," he said, pointing to the oily looking black mystery that my brother was cradling like a newborn baby. My mother gasped, "What is that?!" My dad rolled his eyes, "It's a dead eel, Marjorie. We named it Rover from Dover."
For the next two days my brothers walked around with a dead eel, like it was a new pet. I remember coming home to see a crowd of neighborhood kids surrounding my brothers. My brother Owen was wearing the dead eel around his neck like a snake, and their neighborhood buddies were taking turns petting it.
Eventually my parents made them bury it in the backyard in an old Gatorade bottle.
A month later my brothers dug it back up. My mom made them rebury it. A year later my brothers dug it back up.