Your story opens with two people standing on an oriental carpet.

"I can't believe he did it again!  I have reached my limit," Donna's voice rose to a high pitched screech as she pointed down with exasperation to the oriental carpet under our feet.

"I'm certain I have no idea what you are talking about, dear," I said as I settled into my favorite chair near the fireplace.  I had been nursing a cold and a stuffy head all day, and I really did not feel like playing twenty questions with Donna.  The bookshelves rose up from floor to ceiling behind me, tempting me to reach out an dive into one of the well worn travel books or novels to escape.

"Don't you dare!"  Donna was now pointing directly at me knowingly.

"What would you like for me to do?"  I blew my nose and waited patiently.  Maybe if she gave me honey-do list, she would leave me to do it--or not--in peace.

"I want you to do something about this!"  She pointed again to the carpeting which looked fine to me.  I got up and walked toward where she was pointing and squinted down through my thick bifocal lenses at the rose and brown floral pattern.

"Would you like me to buy you a new rug, dear?  I thought this one went well with the wallpaper and furniture, but if you would like different one, we can go out tomorrow when I am well and--"

"No, no, no!" Donna screeched louder than before. "I love this carpet.  It's him!  He did it again, and it needs to stop!"

Biting back the first thing that popped into my head which didn't seem very flattering and had something to do with her being totally daft, I paused, and once again looked down at the carpet.  Random thoughts flew through my head -- Did carpet's have gender?  Was this carpet a "he"?  How did "he" ever find a "she" to make baby carpets?  Were baby carpets welcome mats until they grew up to be big, floor sized carpets?

I chuckled.  

This was the wrong response because Donna screamed again.  She threw up her hands and yelled, "This is your problem!  He's your responsibility, not mine.  Fix this because if this," she points emphatically, "happens again, you will have to choose between me or him!"

Donna, always one to make a dramatic exit whenever possible, stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the carpet, wondering, pondering.  Finally, I gave up, shrugged, and went back to my chair.  Reaching out for the book closest to my left hand.  I stroked the spine of the Fodor's Guide to China and pulled it free of the shelf and settled in to read.

Just then Charlemagne, the big, grey tom cat who I had owned for more years than I had been married to Donna, hefted his girth into my lap.  He kneaded and circled, purring and rubbing his head on my book and then my chin.  I petted him absently as I flipped through the pages past China's Zhangye's beautiful Rainbow Mountains. I rubbed his head and thought about the rocky pillars in Zhangjiajie. I stroked his back as I looked at pictures of Anhui's Yellow Mountains. 

"Hmm," I thought, "yellow..."

"What did you do to the carpet, Charlie?" I sighed rhetorically, as I left my daydreams behind and went to get the carpet cleaner.