Not long after I wrote a column about the joys of walking, my good knee went bad.

I use the word "good" generously. Neither of my knees is good. My left knee was injured long ago. That was in another era. Arthroscopic surgery had not yet been invented. A fellow couldn't go into the hospital, have his knee "scoped" and be walking within a week. No sir. Knee surgery was fairly complicated.

I was in the hospital for several days, and would have been in longer except I became angry when the doctors took me off Demerol and I grabbed my crutches and left.

I had come out of surgery in terrible pain and the doctor prescribed Demerol. The instructions were something like, "Every six hours if needed." As I would begin to doze off, I would say to the nurses, "Wake me in six hours so I can have another shot of this."

Those were Flower Power days, and the nurses were wonderful, sympathetic people who saw me as a free spirit and not as a budding drug addict. So the days were blissful and melted into each other until finally, when my six hours were up, a nurse came in with a pill. A pill? I was beside myself. I needed a shot.

"The doctor says you've had enough Demerol," the nurse said gently.

"He doesn't know the sort of pain I'm in," I said.

But my pleas went for naught. No more Demerol. In another day or so, I checked out of the hospital. That would teach them.

I was on crutches for months. I drove a stick shift in those days and as I was unable to operate a clutch. I had to buy a car to get me through until I could use my left leg again.

I went to Jake the Snake's Garden of Gears, where the motto was, "If it breaks in half, you own both halves." I got a Chrysler New Yorker with push-button gears. Reverse did not work, so I had to be careful how I parked. I had to make sure nobody could park in front of me. It was a challenge.

My knee eventually recovered, but it was never the same. So my left knee has long been my bad knee.

A few years ago, my right knee gave way. That was frightening. When your good knee goes bad, you're in trouble. But medical science had progressed. I had the knee scoped. No muss, no fuss, no Demerol. That's fine with me. I'm through with drugs.

My right knee recently gave way again. The doctor suggested an MRI and some pain medication. The MRI showed the sort of damage that has necessitated an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon.

Meanwhile, I am gutting it out on the pain medication. My wife got on her computer and looked up the medication.

"Don't use with alcohol," she read aloud.

"The lawyers make them say that," I replied. "That's why we need tort reform."

"This says that if you abuse alcohol while you take this medication, you could damage your liver," she said.

"That's the lawyers talking again," I said. "I don't listen to that stuff. I know what I know. Alcohol abuse can damage your knees. Anything else is speculation, as far as I'm concerned."

I can still hobble, so I'm all right. Of course, I try not to hobble at home. That's because I have a cat, and all cats remember the wild. She sees me limping and her instincts kick in. She wants to cull me from the herd.

When I first caught her stalking me, I tried to stomp my foot at her, but when I raised my left foot, it put too much pressure on my right knee, and my leg buckled. I caught myself before I completely collapsed, but my flailing clearly excited the cat. Her instincts had been right. I was hurt.

I managed to work my way into the kitchen without being attacked, but still, the whole thing unnerved me. We got the cat at Soulard Market when Bill Clinton was running for president. So she's no youngster herself. You'd think maybe she'd have a little sympathy for me.

But no. That is not the way of cats. I sat down at the kitchen table and looked into the hall. I didn't see the cat but I knew she was out there. I figured I'd better wait for my wife to get home before I ventured out of the kitchen. I poured myself a drink.

I thought of that long ago time when I had my first operation and nearly got hooked on Demerol. I've really matured since then, I decided. I toasted myself. "To growing up," I said.