My grandmother had a monkey-skin rug. Made from the skin of a black-and-white colobus, then purchased in Kenya in the early 1960s, it was as morally questionable as it was beautiful. As someone who prefers monkey skins on living monkeys, I’m somewhat glad I never actually saw it.
One day, while grandma was cleaning out her cupboards, she came across the rug in its bag. Morbidly curious, we asked her to bring it out and show us. So grandma brought the bag over and opened it up. All that remained of the monkey-skin rug was a pile of dust.