re, we need to protect all sentient beings very much. Also, we must recognize that we share the same two basic wishes: the wish to enjoy happiness and the wish to avoid suffering.”
These are themes I have heard the Dalai Lama repeat often and in limitless ways. Yet every time he speaks with such vivid clarity and impact, it is as though he is expressing them for the first time.
“We all share these wishes. But also the way we look for happiness and try to avoid discomfort is the same. Who among us does not enjoy a delicious meal? Who does not wish to sleep in a safe, comfortable bed? Author, monk—or stray kitten—we are all equal in that.”
Across the coffee table, the history professor shifted in his seat.
“Most of all,” the Dalai Lama said, leaning over and stroking me with his index finger, “all of us just want to be loved.”
By the time the professor left later that afternoon, he had a lot more to think about than his tape recording of the Dalai Lama’s views on Indo-Tibetan history. His Holiness’s message was challenging. Confronting, even. But it wasn’t one that could easily be dismissed … as we were to discover.
In the days that followed, I quickly became familiar with my new surroundings. The cozy nest His Holiness created for me out of an old fleece robe. The changing light in his rooms as the sun rose, passed over us, and set each day, and the tenderness with which he and his two executive assistants fed me warm milk until I was strong enough to begin eating solid food.
I also began exploring, first the Dalai Lama’s own suite, then out beyond it, to the office shared by the two executive assistants. The one seated closest to the door, the young, roly-poly monk with the smiling face and soft hands, was Chogyal. He helped His Holiness with monastic matters. The older, taller one, who sat opposite him, was Tenzin. Always in a dapper suit, with hands that had the clean tang of carbolic soap, he was a professional diplomat and cultural attaché who assisted the Dalai Lama in secular matters.
That first day I wobbled around the corner into their office, there was an abrupt halt in the conversation.
“Who is this?” Tenzin wanted to know.
Chogyal chuckled as he lifted me up and put me on his desk, where my eye was immediately caught by the bright blue top of a Bic pen. “The Dalai Lama rescued her while driving out of Delhi,” Chogyal said, repeating the attendant’s story as I flicked the Bic top across his desk.
“Why does she walk so strangely?” the other wanted to know.
“Apparently she was dropped on her back.”
“Hmm.” Tenzin sounded doubtful as he leaned forward, scrutinizing me closely. “Perhaps she was malnourished, being the smallest kitten. Does she have a name?”
“No,” Chogyal said. Then, after he and I had batted the plastic pen top back and forth across his desk a few times, he exclaimed, “We’ll have to give her one!” He seemed enthusiastic about the challenge. “An ordination name. What do you think—Tibetan or English?” (In Buddhism, when someone becomes a monk or nun they are given an ordination name to mark their new identity.)
Chogyal suggested several possibilities before Tenzin said, “It’s better not to force these things. I’m sure something will present itself as we get to know her better.”
As usual, Tenzin’s advice was both wise and prophetic—unfortunately for me, as things turned out. Chasing the pen top, I progressed from Chogyal’s desk halfway across Tenzin’s, before the older man seized my small, fluffy form and put me down on the rug.
“You’d better stay there,” he said. “I have a letter here from His Holiness to the Pope, and we don’t want paw prints all over it.”
Chogyal laughed. “Signed on his behalf by His Holiness’s Cat.”
“HHC,” Tenzin shot back. In official correspondence, His Holiness is frequently referred to as HHDL. “That can be her provisional title until we find a suitable name.”
Beyond the executive assistants’ office was a corridor that led past more offices, toward a door that was kept carefully closed. I knew from talk in the executive assistants’ office that the door led to many places, including Downstairs, Outside, The Temple, and even Overseas. This was the door through which all His Holiness’s visitors came and went. It opened onto a whole new world. But in those early days, as a very small kitten, I was perfectly content to remain on this side of it.
Having spent my first days on Earth in a back alley, I had little understanding of human life—and no idea how unusual my new circumstances were. When His Holiness got out of bed every morning at 3 A.M. to meditate for five hours, I would follow him and curl up in a tight knot beside him, basking in his warmth and energy. I thought that most people started each day in meditation.
When visitors came to see His Holiness, I saw that they always presented him with a white scarf, or kata, which he then returned to them with a blessing. I assumed this was how humans usually greeted visitors. I was also aware that many people who visited His Holiness had traveled very long distances to do so; that, too, seemed perfectly normal to me.
Then one day Chogyal picked me up in his arms and tickled my neck. “Are you wondering who all these people are?” he asked, following my gaze to the many framed photographs on the wall of the executive assistants’ office. Gesturing to a few of the photos, he said, “These are the past eight presidents of the United States, meeting His Holiness. He is a very special person, you know.”
I did know, because he always made sure my milk was warm—but not too hot—before giving it to me.
“He is one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders,” Chogyal continued. “We believe he is a living Buddha. You must have a very close karmic connection to him. It would be most interesting to know what that is.”
A few days later, I found my way down the corridor to the small kitchen and sitting area where some of the Dalai Lama’s staff went to relax, have their lunch, or make tea. Several monks were sitting on a sofa, watching a recorded news item on His Holiness’s recent visit to the U.S. By now they all knew who I was—in fact, I had become the office mascot. Hopping up on the lap of one of the monks, I allowed him to stroke me as I watched TV.
Initially, all I could see was a huge crowd of people with a tiny red dot in the center, while His Holiness’s voice could be heard quite clearly. But as the news clip progressed, I realized that the red dot was His Holiness, in the center of a vast indoor sports arena. It was a scene that was replayed in every city he visited, from New York to San Francisco. The newscaster commented that the huge crowds of people who came out to see him in every city showed that he was more popular than many rock stars.
Little by little, I began to realize just how extraordinary the Dalai Lama was, and how highly regarded. And perhaps because of Chogyal’s comment about our “very close karmic connection,” at some stage I started to believe that I must be rather special, too. After all, I was the one His Holiness had rescued from the gutters of New Delhi. Had he recognized in me a kindred spirit—a sentient being on the same spiritual wavelength as he?
When I heard His Holiness tell visitors about the importance of loving kindness, I would purr contentedly, certain in the knowledge that this was exactly what I thought, too. When he opened my evening can of Snappy Tom, it seemed as obvious to me as it was to him that all sentient beings wanted to fulfill the same basic needs. And as he stroked my bulging tummy after my dinner, it seemed equally clear that he was right; each of us does just want to be loved.