At 41, I’ve decided it’s finally time to start listening to my mother. At least on some things. Like Little Joe. Her cat.
Little Joe threw his knee out. How he did this, no one knows. In fact, no one even knew cats had knees until this. My mother worried the vet would think she did something to him. Because how else can you explain a cat whose knee started popping out of socket.
But take one look at Little Joe and you realize if any cat can do it, he can. He’s pure mischief. His coat is midnight black — like a bandit. You picture him with jewel thieves in exotic cities pulling off million-dollar heists. As they bask in their riches, they would always toast, “Here’s to Little Joe!”
He has yellow eyes. He slinks about low to the ground. Like a panther. Or a snake! I think he knows how to do card tricks. I think he’s the one responsible for pickpocketing downtown. For global warming. For that wily computer virus that steals credit card info.
Oh, and my mother reports he’s not using the litter pan anymore. He’s peeing on her favorite chair!
That Little Joe.
Who knows how he got injured. He climbs up on roofs and leaps off like he’s base-jumping. Without a parachute! He’s lucky to have knees at all.
So he’s been housebound. Under strict doctor’s orders. Keep that miscreant inside. Make him rest. See if his knee heals up on its own. “Little Joe, you have to behave!”
I picture Little Joe spitting at the vet. (Maybe he’s the reincarnation of James Dean.)
“Don’t open the screen door!” my mother yelled at me when I came over to visit. “Little Joe will get out. I heard him on the phone before making plans.”
“Little Joe won’t get out,” I remember thinking. He’s a critter. And I’m an advanced mammal. Besides, look at the poor little thing. Look how he’s staring at me. Long eyes. “Hey, mister. I’m just a cat with a busted wing. I’m so injured. Me-ow. You can trust me.”
And I’m an idiot. I did trust him. A cat named “Little Joe.”
I barely cracked the door. Then shoved my foot in the gap to shoo him away.
But Little Joe is like water. Give him a crack — even the slightest — and he’ll leak through it.
BOOM! BAM! Wow. There he goes!
My mother screamed, “No! Brian! His knee will pop out! He’s under strict doctor’s orders!”
I felt like a 5-year-old. The kid told not to touch the burner. “It’s not hot, see … AHHH! MEDIC!!!”
Maybe it’s time I start listening to my mother. At 41. Not on everything. But at least when it comes to things like releasing Little Joe upon the world. Which reminds me: Please keep an eye on your jewels, and don’t download anything from the Internet. Little Joe might still be out there.