A stumpy carcass gently lapped back and forth on the shore outside our office all day. We never would have seen it if Jeff hadn’t decided it was time for our final plant, now dead and destined to the same fate as the others, to be pitched. We were all sick of looking at it.

Jeff lifted the giant glass windowpane as high as it could go, and his upper torso disappeared as he leaned over the windowsill and into the open air. Evaluating the likelihood of not getting caught while throwing a four-foot plant out the window of our third story office (not likely), Jeff was distracted by something much stranger than an indoor plant floating down the river.

Our building is about five feet from the river, separated only by a pile of dirty rocks, gravel, and garbage. So when Jeff called us over to take a look, I didn’t leap out of my chair nor did I expect to see anything interesting.

But after hearing Jeff and Chris debate about whether they were looking at a cat or a pig, curiosity got the best of me. Taking my turn leaning as far out the window as I could, I found myself staring down at the lifeless body of something that could only be a dead animal. The carcass washed up the rocks then fell slightly back into the water, over and over, as the subtle movement of the Chicago River refused to let it lie still.

The strange thing was that the ill-fated animal’s four limbs had been chopped off—only its haunches with short hoof-like stumps remained. The head had also been severed. But the torso was big, thick and strong—an awful lot like a pig’s.

We debated all day about what it was, and every time we looked to see if it would become clear, we returned to our desks just as confused as before. We compromised and collectively decided it had once been a goat. It was too big to be a cat and we have no idea where a pig would have come from. But goats! Chicago is teeming with them, so it only makes sense.