The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

Returning to the windowsill, my tail hanging dejectedly, I noticed how unpleasantly bright the day had become. Outside, the birds squawked loudly, and the stink of pine was as strong as bathroom disinfectant. How could Chogyal not see what he was doing? How could he not realize that he had just ordered the obliteration of the last surviving link I had to the very cutest kitten that ever lived, my darling little Snow Cub?

Four months earlier, as a result of a dalliance with a ruggedly handsome if ultimately unsuitable back-alley Tom, I had given birth to a gorgeous litter of four. The first three to emerge into the world were just like their father: dark, robust, and male. It was, in fact, a source of general amazement that such vigorous specimens of tabby, soon sporting mackerel stripes, could have emerged from my petite and refined, if delightfully fluffy body. The fourth and final kitten was, however, in every way her mother’s child. The last to make her way onto the yak blanket on His Holiness’s bed in the early hours one morning, she was born so small she could easily have fit into a tablespoon. Initially we all feared for her survival, and to this day I’m convinced it was only thanks to the Dalai Lama that she made it.

Tibetan Buddhists regard His Holiness as an emanation of Chenrezig, the Buddha of Compassion. While I live in the presence of his compassion all the time, I never felt it directed so powerfully as in our hour of greatest need. As my little baby—a tiny, pink, wrinkled speck with a few wisps of whiteness—struggled for her life, His Holiness watched over us, reciting a mantra softly under his breath. With the spotlight of his attention focused on us until the little one recovered from the birth process, it was as though no bad could come to us. We were bathed in the love and well-being of all the Buddhas. When finally she found her way to a teat and began to suckle, it was as though we had passed through a storm. Thanks to His Holiness’s protection, all would be well.

For several weeks before the kittens were born, as news of my pregnancy had spread, His Holiness’s office had received entreaties to adopt my k

ittens from monks across the courtyard at Namgyal Monastery, from friends and supporters elsewhere in India and the Himalayas, and from as far afield as Madrid, Los Angeles, even Sydney. Had I been able to deliver enough of them, my progeny could have been living on every continent of the world.

For the first few weeks my babies were fragile and dependent. After a month, my three boisterous sons were ready to try out canned kitten food, although I still had to nurse my little girl, who was so much tinier than the others. By eight weeks, the boys were running wild—scampering up curtains, tearing through His Holiness’s apartment, springing to attack the ankles of unsuspecting passersby.

Before any VIP visitor arrived, the apartment would have to be swept for kittens. Chogyal, who although highly intelligent was not the most coordinated of humans, would fumble about on his hands and knees, tripping over his own robes, as he chased after one or another of my elusive sons. Tenzin—older, taller, and worldly wise—would remove his jacket with some ceremony before adopting a strategic approach, creating a distraction to flush the kittens out of wherever they were hiding and then seizing them when they least expected.

The turning point came with the arrival of one particular visitor. As His Holiness’s Cat I have learned to be the very model of discretion when it comes to celebrity visits. Far be it from me to utter the name of any such VIP. Let me just say that this particular guest was a household name, a movie star, an Austrian-born bodybuilder who not only became one of the hottest tickets in Hollywood but went on to be governor of California.

There. That’s as far as I’m prepared to go. I couldn’t possibly say more without giving the game away.

The afternoon that he arrived in the back of a shiny SUV, Chogyal and Tenzin had undertaken their now-routine kitten check, securing the three tabby kittens in the staff room. Or so they thought.

Picture, if you will, the following scene. The distinguished guest arrived—handsome, charismatic, and towering over the Dalai Lama. As is Tibetan tradition in meeting a high lama, the guest bowed and presented His Holiness with a white scarf, called a kata, that His Holiness in turn draped around the VIP’s neck. Everything was smiles and serenity—the usual case when the Dalai Lama is involved. Then the VIP guest stepped beside his host for the official photograph.

A fraction of a second before the photographer snapped the picture, my three sons launched what can only be described as a full frontal assault. Two of them burst out from behind an armchair and charged directly up the visitor’s legs. The third sank his claws and teeth into the visitor’s left ankle.

The visitor doubled over with shock and pain. The photographer let out a screech of alarm. For a few stunned moments time seemed to stop. Then the first two kittens scampered back down the VIP’s legs while the third darted away without so much as an “Hasta la vista, baby.”

His Holiness, the only one who seemed unsurprised by the feline security lapse, apologized profusely. Recovering his poise, the VIP guest seemed to find the whole thing quite amusing.

I don’t think I will ever forget the sight of what happened next: the Dalai Lama was gesturing in the direction of the miscreant kittens, while one of the world’s most famous action heroes lay on his stomach, trying to scoop the little wretches from their hiding place under a sofa.

Yes, it was agreed by everyone a short while later, more suitable homes had to be found for the male kittens. But the little one, delicate and docile, a miniature version of her Himalayan mother? In their hearts I don’t think anyone wanted to think about her leaving. For the moment, she was safe.

Like many felines, I am a cat of many names. At the Himalaya Book Café, I had been named Rinpoche. In official circles at Jokhang, where His Holiness the Dalai Lama is referred to as HHDL, I acquired the formal title HHC for His Holiness’s Cat. My little girl was soon to follow, being given the official appellation HHK—His Holiness’s Kitten. But the name that mattered most to me was the one given to her by His Holiness himself. A day or two after the boys were gone he lifted my baby up in his hand and gazed into her eyes with that look of pure love that makes your whole being glow.

“So beautiful, just like your mother!” he murmured, stroking her tiny face with his forefinger. “Aren’t you, little Snow Cub?”

For the next few weeks it was just the three of us: His Holiness; me, his Snow Lion; and my daughter, Snow Cub. When I got up early in the morning to curl up next to His Holiness as he meditated, little Snow Cub got up as well, nestling in the warmth of my body. When I went through to the executive assistants’ office, she came with me, mewing until she was picked up and placed on their desks, where she loved nothing more than pawing their pens to the edge, then gleefully flicking them to the ground. On one occasion, Tenzin, who sat opposite Chogyal and was a firm advocate of green tea, left his desk and on it, his glass of tea. He returned to find HHK tentatively lapping from the glass. She didn’t stop as he got closer, or even when he sat in his chair, put his elbows on his desk, and observed her closely.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of my having some of that, is there, HHK?” he asked dryly.

HHK looked up with an expression of wide-eyed wonderment. Was not everything at Jokhang there specifically for her amusement?

Then came the day that Lobsang, His Holiness’s translator, reminded the Dalai Lama of a commitment he had once made. “The queen of Bhutan has asked me to pass on her warm regards, Your Holiness,” he told the Dalai Lama one afternoon after they’d finished working on a transcript.

His Holiness smiled. “Very good. I enjoyed her visit very much. Please send her my very best wishes.”

Lobsang nodded. “She also asked after HHC.”

“Oh, yes. I remember little Snow Lion sitting on her lap. Quite unusual.” He turned to look at where I was curled up with Snow Cub on the beige fleece blanket he had put on the sill after the arrival of the kittens.

“You may remember, Your Holiness, her request to adopt a kitten if HHC ever had any,” Lobsang ventured.

The Dalai Lama paused for a moment before meeting Lobsang’s eyes. “That’s right. I think she was hoping for a kitten with the right … how do you call it?”

“Pedigree?” suggested Lobsang.

His Holiness nodded. “We were never able to trace where HHC came from. The family in Delhi who owned her mother had moved away. As for the father of her kittens …” The two men exchanged a smile.

“But,” continued His Holiness very softly, following Lobsang’s gaze to the tiny form beside me, “little Snow Cub does look very much like her mother. And a promise is a promise.”