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When his four-year-old granddaughter asks to be lifted for a hug, this Grandpa doesn’t hesitate.

Then he replaces her on Planet Earth with a small thud.

He can’t hold her safely. His hands are screaming in pain.

He apologizes and explains: Grandpa has arthritis.

This common ailment has been creeping up on me for years. Lately, the creep has become a trot.

My hands ache whenever I use them in any sustained or forceful way. Two fingers on my left hand click and crack whenever I bend them, if I can bend them at all. The other eight are starting to hurt.

Typing the previous paragraph produced soreness. It’s no fun.

But my granddaughter is lots of fun.

She runs down the hall, calling out: “Mama! Daddy! Grandpa has Arthur!”

I’m one of about 53 million Americans whom Arthur has targeted. That’s about one in every five Americans over age 18.

Arthur appears when cartilage disappears. Over time, normal activity can wear it away. There’s no cure for Arthur, and no treatments that can reverse him.

If Arthur afflicts knees or hips, replacement might be recommended. But for Arthur of the fingers, the only thing that docs recommend is topical pain relievers.

I’ve tried them. They don’t do much after 15 minutes or so. Nor would cortisone shots.

So let me whine a bit, if I may.

Buttoning buttons? That can take two minutes for each.

Tying shoelaces? Sometimes Arthur makes me fumble one lace or the other.

Pulling a quart of milk out of the refrigerator? I have to use both hands, or I might drop it.

Driving hasn’t become an issue yet. If Arthur makes his presence known while I’m executing a turn, I just grimace and finish.

Handling silverware is still easy, as long as I don’t ask my two terrible fingers to do any hoisting. But it’s weird to use only three of five fingers to cut a piece of chicken.

As I turn the pages of a book — minor ouches each time — I remind myself that there are many worse afflictions. If this is the worst physical problem I have, I should count myself lucky.

But then, a package arrives. I bounce to the door to retrieve it. I hoist. I cringe. I use some colorful language.

Dinner done, I start tackling the dishes. There’s the pot in which Grandma has cooked the veggies. I grab it with my “bad hand.” I drop it. It clangs to the counter, as if to say: “So, old guy, you forgot, huh?”

Time to change the sheets. The last piece of this drill is the pillowcases. I carefully line up Case One and move to slip the pillow inside. Ouch. Arthur has reared his ugly head once again.

Why is this landing on me? Could it be my choice of profession? I’ve spent more than 60 years as a writer. I have pounded many keyboards with great vigor. Is Arthur the inevitable result? Should I have become a soccer player, where using hands is forbidden?

The medical profession is excellent in many ways, but doctors always resist predicting the future. That hasn’t kept me from asking my docs how bad this is going to get, and how soon.

The docs all say they don’t know, and won’t know. So I don’t know, and won’t know, either.

In the meantime, I’ve tried a tactic that has done more than any ointment. Grandma found a squeezy rubber ball, slightly smaller than a baseball, and presented it to me. Whenever I feel Arthur coming on, I grab it and clench it with my bad hand. Then the less bad hand.

This isn’t close to a cure. But during the squeezes, the pain flies away, and the stiffness seems to abate. Oldest truth is the truest truth: The simplest answer is often the best answer.

An hour after I had clanked her to the floor, my granddaughter reappears. She asks if Arthur is still hurting me.

No, I say, I’m OK now.

That’s good, she says, because I don’t want Arthur to hurt you.

I open my arms. She snuggles close for a hug. I wrap her up in a big one.

Take that, Arthur. Buttons are one thing. Squeezes are much better.

Bob Levey is a national award-winning columnist.