I have mice. Joint mice. Flaky pieces of cartilage that have abandoned the ol' meniscus ship to float freely within my sea of synovial fluid.
The problem with joint mice is that you never know when they will manifest themselves. One minute they're all cartoon cute, wearing little red shorts, white gloves, and yellow shoes, courting a lady mouse in a big pink bow with a bouquet of bright flowers...and the next minute they're jamming little mouse potatoes into the tailpipe of my knee joint, and two-fistedly gnawing on nerves they envision to be tasty wedges of cheddar cheese.
The transformation occurs without warning. I think I'm going to take a step forward, and my knee locks up with the bonus of a shooting pain. After a few limps, the pain might go away. Or it might linger for several weeks. And that's with the good knee. Not the good one who tries to persuade the bad one that it's wrong to toss a dummy off a highway overpass to cause a chain reaction auto accident, like Elijah Wood tried to persuade Macaulay Culkin in The Good Son. No. The good one, as in the knee which has not gone under the knife.
I can generally pacify the joint mice with a snap of cold weather to their insular community behind the patella, at the corner of femur and tibia. An ice pack every evening makes them somewhat tractable. I am not ready to evict the little vermin with a surgical procedure. Too bad an orange-striped cat is not an option. Nor a sticky-floored joint mouse motel.
I guess I'm going to have to live with them.