In the naive days of our marriage, Renate and I purchased two rugs simply because we thought they’d look nice in our apartment.
This morning I carried the first rug to the curb. Thirty minutes later it was gone, sucked up into a world of scavengers who might live with cats but long ago accepted defeat. That, or they need something to soak up the oil dripping from their car.
Three rugs have fought the good fight. One after another, we moved them from the living room into our room, hiding the shredded sections beaneath the bed. Eventually the remaining portion was sufficiently mangled, and we relegated the rug to the sunroom, which is more or less the cat’s domain.
Basically we gave it to her. We surrendered.
We’ve switched tactics; the new rug has no visible weave. “She can’t possibly get her claws into this,” we said convincingly in the store.
Someday we’ll realize the only victories we can claim are the ones she decides to give us.
But that day is not today.