Once upon a time, in my other life, I hired a person to be part of my team. I will call him George. That’s not his name, but it’s what the Abominable Snowman called Bugs Bunny, so it’s as good as any. 

Most of my existing team members disliked George. They found him difficult. His top three offenses fell into the categories of narcissism, gossip, and manipulation. One by one, people I had worked with for years came to me expressing genuine concerns about George. He was a wolf in hand tailored suits and cuff links. He could not be trusted. 

I listened to their issues and surveyed the scene for evidence. I just couldn’t see it. George was charming, eager, and committed. He was a renegade and I liked that about him. He thought outside of the box, pushed the envelope, ran with scissors, ripped labels off mattresses, left the lights on, and that wild side made other people uncomfortable.  He confided in me that he and I were the same kind of edgy, cut from a similar fabric. In my vanity and personal bend towards being a nonconformer, I ruled him as misunderstood.

My own little bunny rabbit, and I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him and pat him.

This feral rescue pet approach to hiring is not one that I would advise. Over time, George set off alarms with clients, twisting words, and playing multiple sides of conversations to challenge outcomes. His tenure climaxed when he succumbed to his nature and bit me, hard. It required business stitches. 

Me, bitten. After I had hugged him and petted him and squeezed him and patted him and named him George.

Although the story of George’s fall from grace is juicy, recounting it here implies that I was a victim, and I wasn’t. I was a participant. 

I tried to make light about George after he left the group, not wanting to fully fess up to my regret or the depth of the wound of betrayal.

 “You know me,” I said. “Always one to take in strays.”

 “Emily,” said my colleague, with more love than I deserved. “Strays like George find your house and take up residence because you feed them.”

That comment smarted almost as much as the bite mark. It was true. George had stayed because I had nourished him. And, he had reciprocated. I felt as guilty in the attempt to reclaim and renovate as he was for the deception.

There are lots of ways to carve and serve this. There are numerous diagnosis options for the dysfunction and an assortment of ways to justify my behavior. I’m not going to do that because I’m exhausted with the passes our world distributes with reckless abandon because someone was teased on the school bus.

I’m a grown-ass woman. I owned a company. I was in a leadership position. I’m going to be accountable for my actions and call it what it was, a mistake. I was wrong about George. And I knew I was wrong long before he bit me. 

Let’s focus on the core issue here because I’m a repeat offender as my far-sighted optimism and internal positivity over-function and create a blinder in my ability to see people close-up for who they really are. I know this about myself, and it doesn’t excuse that it happens. Even after I sniff that a rap sheet might be askew or that someone isn’t as I first thought, I keep putting out the bowl of food, hoping that it will draw out the goodness. And, perhaps on some human level it does, but there’s a cost involved.

In reflecting on George and the army of people that march about the world fitting the same description, the price isn’t just a personal one. The fascination and engagement with strays have impact on the people who are deserving of the finest vittles. Life is finite and displacing attention procures energy, time, resources, group dynamics, and moments that can never be recovered.

Conduct can only advance from chronic mistake to lesson if and when it changes. 

Much like the old folktale of two spirit beasts at war within a person’s soul, one fights for good and one fights for evil. The one who wins is the one who’s most well-fed. 

For me, this strategy works inside and out.