The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)

The Dalai Lama raised his eyebrows. Bodhisattva is a Tibetan Buddhist term that translates as “enlightened being.” The idea of setting alerts as spiritual reminders throughout the day was hardly new, although the phone application was a novelty.

At that moment I decided it was time I had some attention myself. With a gentle chirrup, I launched myself from the floor onto His Holiness’s lap.

The visitor glanced over, surprised, as I circled on the Dalai Lama’s lap and kneaded his red robes contemplatively for a few moments before settling down.

Looking at his visitor, His Holiness said, “This is my ‘bodhicatva alert.’” His expression was mischievous. “Very effective. The best thing is, she is also sem-chen, a mindhaver. She is, how do you call it . . . interactive!”

As both of them chuckled, I looked up at the Dalai Lama and purred loudly.

“Nice alert tone,” the litter man said as he smiled.

After the litter chief had left the office, I made my early-evening sweep of the building. Tail held high as I walked past the executive assistants’ office, I noticed Tenzin talking to his computer. There had been much anticipation of a Skype call with the Vatican and, naturally, I was curious to see what was happening. Hopping onto the desk opposite his, I padded over toward where he was sitting. A disembodied voice sounded from the sides of his computer screen.

“I can get his calendar now to start looking at dates,” a man in a suit was saying. “But I’ll have to go down the corridor for it.”

“As it happens, I need to attend to the call of nature,” replied Tenzin. “Shall we resume in five minutes?”

Watching the screen intently, I noted that the man on the screen sat at a desk much the same as Tenzin’s. This detail wouldn’t have held my attention for more than a few seconds except for one thing: a snout had appeared at the bottom of the screen. Long, shaggy tufts of fur hung untidily from each side of it. A large, pink tongue lolled beneath. It was indisputably canine.

My whiskers tingled.

“Sì, sì!” the other man agreed, pushing back his seat and stepping away from the desk.

I moved to occupy the center of the screen, staring closely at the snout. Within moments, it had loomed up to become the whole head of a dog as close to its screen as I was to mine. Its large, brown eyes held a mischievous glint.

There had been a time not so long ago when my reaction to any large dog would have been fear or disdain, depending how far away I was from it. But I had come to learn that nothing was more disarming to a dog than a cat who, instead of blindly obeying her instincts, remained calmly cordial.

Plus there was the still-new knowledge that, also not so long ago, I had been a dog myself.

“Who are you?” I asked the great, shaggy beast in a pleasant tone.

He replied in a baritone voice that was as rich as the gravy of Mrs. Trinci’s goulash and with a curiously musical accent I found hard to place: “A being of many names.”

“What?” I was taken aback.

“A being of many names” was my line. What was this imposter doing trying to hijack it?

“But you must have . . . an official name?” I pressed.

“HHD,” he said, eyes a-sparkle.

“Don’t be silly. It can’t be!”

“Whyever not?” He sounded genuinely bewildered.

“Because that’s like my title. HHC. His Holiness’s Cat.”

“To be sure?” he yelped with excitement. “And I’m His Holiness’s Dog.”

There was something about the jaunty demeanor of the dog I found maddening as well as curiously entertaining.

“His Holiness doesn’t have a dog,” I said, knowing I was on firm ground.

“’Course he does,” growled the other amiably. “I am he!”

What was I to make of this wild-haired apparition?

“You don’t have to take my word for it,” he continued. “Put on the TV tonight. They just filmed a segment where I made an appearance, so they did.”