“Not only that, he’s given her the name Rinpoche.”
“Rinpoche?” It was too much for the Dalai Lama, who burst out laughing.
“Yes,” said Tenzin as they both turned to look at me. “Funny name to call a cat.”
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A late afternoon breeze brought the scent of Himalayan pine through the open window.
His Holiness’s expression was thoughtful. “But perhaps not such a bad name if she has helped the restaurant owner develop more equanimity for dogs and cats. For him, therefore, she is precious.”
Rising from his chair, he came over to stroke me. “You know, Tenzin, sometimes if I am working at my desk for a long time, our little Snow Lion will come and rub against my legs. Sometimes,” he chortled, “she will even bite my ankles until I stop what I’m doing. She wants me to pick her up and say hello and spend a few moments being together, just the two of us.
“For me,” he continued, “she is a beautiful reminder to be in this moment, here and now. What could be more precious? So I suppose”—he looked at me with that oceanic love—“she is my Rinpoche, too.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It was an overcast and unpromising day when I ventured out of the Dalai Lama’s office into that of his executive assistants. It so happened that both Chogyal and Tenzin were away from their desks, but the office wasn’t completely unattended.
There, curled up in a wicker basket by the radiator, was a Lhasa apso.
For those unfamiliar with the breed, Lhasa apsos are small, long-haired dogs who, in the past, helped to guard the monasteries of Tibet. They have a special place in the affections of Tibetans—sometimes from my sill I watch visitors down below circumambulating the temple with their Lhasa apsos, an auspicious ritual believed to help achieve higher rebirth. But discovering one so close to my own inner sanctum came as a most unwelcome surprise.
Dozing in its basket as I entered the room, the dog raised its nose and sniffed the air before deciding to play it safe and bury its furry head back in its basket. For my part, I walked past without so much as acknowledging its existence, hopping up onto Chogyal’s desk and from there to my favorite viewing platform on top of the wooden filing cabinet.
Moments later, Chogyal returned. Leaning down, he patted the small dog and talked to him in the familiar and endearing tone of voice I’d always thought he reserved for me. As my hackles rose, the betrayal only deepened. Oblivious to my presence, Chogyal spent quite some time stroking and caressing the beast—which looked a very scrawny specimen—reassuring it of its good looks, its delightful temperament, and the special care he was going to give it. The very same sentiments he usually whispered in my ear—and which I’d always imagined were sincere and heartfelt. Listening to him repeat those words to this dull-eyed, lank-haired interloper made me realize that far from being exclusive, they were just stock phrases he repeated to any creature with four legs and a furry face.
So much for our special relationship!
Chogyal resumed his place at the desk, tapping away on his keyboard, not realizing that I was sitting only yards away and had seen everything. When Tenzin arrived about 20 minutes later, he too acknowledged the dog by name—Kyi Kyi, pronounced with a long “i,” as in “kite”—before sitting at his own desk.
I found it hard to believe that they both could sit there reading and replying to e-mails as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Matters only got worse when the Dalai Lama’s translator arrived with a newly completed manuscript under his arm. Lobsang was tall, slender, and youthful, and tranquility seemed to ooze from his every pore. I had believed myself to be a favorite of his, but he too bent to stroke the new arrival before crossing to greet me.
“And how is our little Snow Lion today?” He began tickling under my chin before I seized his fingers in the steel-vise-grip of my teeth.
“I didn’t realize she’d met our special guest,” Chogyal said, looking up at me with his usual smile, as if I were supposed to be as pleased as he was.
“Not necessarily her special guest,” observed Tenzin. Turning to look directly at me, he added, “But hopefully you can find a place in your heart for Kyi Kyi.”
Eyes darkening with displeasure, I released Lobsang’s hand and descended to the desk, then the floor, and stalked out of the room, ears pressed back. The Dalai Lama’s three staffers seemed not to notice.
At lunchtime, I observed Chogyal taking the dog for a walk. It trotted obediently beside him as they circumambulated the temple, and there was much stopping and petting by admiring Tibetans as they came and went from the temple complex.
In the kitchen, Chogyal fed us both at the regular time. But it was hard to avoid comparing the huge mound of food heaped on Kyi Kyi’s plate with my customarily modest portion. Or the fact that Chogyal stayed to watch over the dog as it wolfed down its meal, making a great fuss over it and giving it a rewarding pat afterward, while leaving me to my own devices.
When we bumped into His Holiness in the corridor later, he too crouched down to say hello to the dog. “So this is Kyi Kyi?” he confirmed, patting the dog with much more warmth than I would have liked. “Beautiful markings! Such a handsome little chap!”
They were all making such a big deal you’d have thought they’d never seen a Lhasa apso before! And despite the chatter, none of my questions were being answered—like, what was the dog doing here? And how long would it stay?
It was my ardent hope that the Dalai Lama wasn’t planning to adopt it. There wasn’t room in this relationship for the three of us.
But the next day when I ventured out, Kyi Kyi was there again in his basket.
And the day after that.
This was why another, rather more high-powered visitor that week came as a welcome distraction.
The whole of McLeod Ganj knew that someone special was arriving when a huge, black Range Rover rolled ponderously up the hill toward Jokhang. Locals and tourists alike stared at the high-polished, expensive, and expansive apparition, so out of keeping with the town that it might have materialized from a different planet. Exactly who was behind those dark-tinted windows? What did you have to do to be conveyed about with such extravagant secrecy?