“Ugh. Steve is so cute! Don’t you want to snuggle his little butt all day?” a 20-something former sorority girl said to her cube mate.
“I know. I just cannot. Stand it!” echoed her neighbor, reaching octaves usually emitted only by dog whistles.
Huh. You see, I had met Steve. He was a doughy-faced man, fast approaching 60, who fancied poorly timed dad jokes. What in the world?
It was my first day at a new job in River North. At that point, I lacked the context to understand what seemed like an egregious HR violation. My aha moment came about a week later. Turns out there were two Steves: one, a man; the other, a five-pound Chinese crested–dachshund mix with acute separation anxiety. He dashes in fear every time you shift in…
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Chicago (Digital) - 1 Issue, July 2016