One of the few attractions we have around West of Washington is the Franklin Park Zoo – with amazing animals and other attractions at our doorstep that people come from all over to see.

I haven’t always valued that, but there was a short period of transition in my life when visiting the Zoo, and Little Joe the gorilla in particular, was a regular rotation in my lineup. That time with Little Joe left him high up on my Top 10 favorite beings in Boston.

When our kids were little, we invested in an unlimited Zoo pass. In those days, to save money on childcare, we arranged days off during the week and made the Zoo a destination. We often arrived at opening time, when the morning routines for the animals were still going on and we were the only visitors. While butterflies, roaring lions, and Dippin’ Dots ice cream were on the list, the gorillas were the regular stop. We soon knew them by name, with the kids enjoying the babies.

I gravitated to Little Joe, watching him sitting still or dashing around aimlessly. I appreciated him more because a few years before he had made a series of escapes, once infamously onto Blue Hill Avenue. Unlike the other apes, he knew there was something else beyond his cage, and he wanted to see it.

Soon, I began to feel like he was watching me. He seemed to “perform” in front of my window and give me wild side-eye glances. Was I being paranoid? It’s like with a house cat: Does it really like me and know me, or does it just want food?

It was a memorable summer having the zoo to ourselves studying gorillas. Being near one in person is more terrifying, awe-inspiring, and exhilarating – even if separated by security glass – than seeing one on TV.

After summer ended, the family transitioned to school, with the youngest headed off to kindergarten. I was now alone on my days off and wondering what to do. Child rearing has its seasons, and they can be awkward when, suddenly, patterns change. At a loss, I figured I’d check in on Little Joe.

I think he helped me a bit with that transition. And I’d like to think he enjoyed seeing me back at the zoo where I was often the only one there.

I’ll never forget one morning when I walked toward him, and he was right next to the glass. I sat down close, and he turned and looked. I looked directly into his eyes, and he also made eye contact – so close that his breath fogged up the glass. This was an animal that could have killed me with little effort, so my heart raced. With our eyes locked, there seemed to be a melding of the minds for a couple of minutes that I can’t to this day put into words – a mutual appreciation. He seemed to know far more than anyone understood, whisps of emotions you wouldn’t think an ape could feel. It was unforgettable, soul shaking.

But time moves on, and powerful moments become memories. Late fall arrived, and I stopped going by the Zoo. I didn’t see Little Joe again for many years until, more than a decade later, I was dispatched there to celebrate a new gorilla habitat. I got there early, went through the door, and there he was: larger than life, by himself, and watching people from a hideout. As I moved closer, I felt like maybe he still knew me. He made eye contact.

Then the dignitaries and officials arrived for the event. A podium was placed for optimum TV footage, the wine flowed freely, and important benefactors took their places while a man played the violin about 10 feet from Little Joe. As the program began, people began to hear sounds from the roof: There was an ape up there stomping around and raising hell. It was Little Joe. Suddenly he launched off the roof and emerged behind the podium, inches from the glass.

He looked inside, flexed, then turned around and pushed his arse right up to the glass. It was as if he were saying, “Hey, I’m an ape. Here’s my rear end. What’re you going to do about it?”

Not much, apparently. Organizers tried to ignore it and move through the program with the ultimate in distraction – a massive gorilla – perhaps on purpose – giving everyone his backside without remorse. He stayed in that pose for what seemed like an hour - ruining the TV footage - until he could no longer be ignored.

Everyone finally laughed it off and chalked up a win for the ape. Little Joe had gotten one over on the fancy folks. After my experiences, I’m most confident he did it on purpose. And I love that he did.

Many of us likely feel trapped, and perhaps caged, by those who make big decisions for us – like building us new habitats with new restrictions. I think that many of us probably dream of a day when we, like Little Joe, can throw caution to the wind and back up our arses to our decision makers until they can no longer ignore us. Deep down, doesn’t it at least feel good to think about doing such a thing?

Perhaps Little Joe is savvier than we think. Perhaps we could use more Little Joe in our lives.