Many years ago, in a former life, we had two very nice Chinese style oriental rugs. When I got ready to move to Charleston, I dug one out of the attic and dragged it into den. Naturally there wasn't enough room to spread it out but I unrolled enough of it to see that the colors were what I remembered.
Naturally there was a long discussion my DH and myself about the rug and its condition. He had totally forgotten about the rugs - not that we had a need for them, the last time we had one on the floor was in the room formerly know as my dining room.
Fast forward a week or two. I had moved into my apartment and every thing looked nice and uncluttered with the bare wood floors. I had measured the rug and not only was it going to cover wall to wall in my living area, it was going to make the place look much smaller. He had unrolled the rug and found that the white edges were discolored and there were several large spots in the deep blue center area where the color was almost bleached out.
That suited me fine. I was sure the rug was ruined, the blues did not match my color scheme, and now I had Marshall who was chewing on everything and I could imagine the fun he would have with the fringed end of the rug. Life was good.
Meanwhile my DH had come across a highly recommended rug restoration place in Columbia. Knowing the rug's serious issues, when he asked if I thought he should carry the rug to them, I agreed simply to get an expert to tell him it was hopeless.
He called me and told me he had spoken with them, sent them pictures of the rug, and explained the problems. They had called back saying that they could dye the bleached spots to match the rest of rug (that was something did often) and cleaning the rug would probably return the edge to a brighter white. Great, but they had not seen the rug.
I started back tracking with my DH."You know I measured and that rug is going to go from wall to wall in here. It may make it look very small."
A few days later he called back thrilled that initial washing of the rug had brightened the colors. As soon as it dried then they could dye the spots. I continued my subtle campaign,"It dawned on me yesterday that Marshall is going to chew on that fringe. He could easily ruin it."
A week later he called back. There was some bad news, the way the rug had been stored had caused it have some rather bad creases in it and the backing was messed up. The good news was that the dye job had made the spots totally disappear. I questioned whether the rug was ruined due to the creases?
My DH answered, "No, the rug people said it will take some doing to get the creases out but they will eventually get to a place where they are 'hardly' noticeable". Besides we have come this far. I do not want to stop now and you want the rug."
"Well to be honest, I don't know. There is the issue of Marshall . . ."
"I discussed that with them and they showed me how to simply tape the fringe beneath the ends of the rug using a type of residue free duct tape."
Long story short - the rug was delivered to my apartment by my DH and it was installed, although not without some differences of opinion. The 'creases' were actually several 3 to 4 stiff ridges. And they were not in places where I could put a heavy piece of furniture to flatten them out.
That was a Sunday. Monday I came home from work and found Marshall had decided to use the rug as a pee pad. This was insult to injury. And it was not issue I even considered. I cleaned it up and tried not to trip over the oriental ridge line that ran from the edge of the rug under my coffee table.
By Wednesday, Marshall had peed on the rug again. The rug made the room look small, the colors were wrong, it didn't fit, and now Marshall had deemed it his personal pee pad (it was beginning to un-house train him). I started moving all the furniture, piece by piece, and was able to slide the rug out and roll it as well as the pad up. After some finagling I stored the rug under the guest bed and the pad under my bed.
I did not say anything to my DH. The next two trips he made to Charleston, he did not come to the apartment. Then last Thursday he came to pick me up. He had been sitting down for a good 10 minutes when he finally said, "Wait, where's the rug?"
I briefly explained how many times I had tripped over the creases, how it barely fit, and most of all Marshall's penchant for it. He wasn't happy but it did not put up a fight, nor did he offer to take it home.
So now instead of the rug being stored in the attic, and not being used, it has been "restored", only to be tucked under my bed. Who knows my next Charleston abode may be a better fit for the rug and Marshall may be a little more manageable - probably not but I can be optimistic.