The Dalai Lama's Cat (The Dalai Lama's Cat 1)

Then there was my subsequent reaction—wallowing in bed for three days. How pathetic had that been? I already kne

w about the opportunity I had missed by burying myself under Chogyal’s duvet.

Egocentric melodrama. If I were to look at myself with unflinching but compassionate honesty, would this not accurately describe the way I spent so much of my life?

“Very often,” His Holiness was saying, “when I meet people—business leaders, entertainers, and others—they tell me that what seemed to be the worst thing that could ever happen to them turned out, with the benefit of hindsight, to be the very best.”

“We are forced to forge a new path,” said Thich Nhat Hanh. “One that may lead to greater congruence and fulfillment, if we allow it.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed His Holiness.

“Even when circumstances turn for the very worst,” continued his visitor, “we can still find fresh opportunities.”

The Dalai Lama looked pensive for a moment before he said, “The darkest moment in my life was having to leave Tibet. If China hadn’t invaded our country, I would still be in Lhasa. But because of the invasion, I am here, and many other monks and nuns came, too. And in the past fifty years, the Dharma has spread throughout the world. I think it has made a useful contribution.”

“I’m quite sure of it,” replied Thich Nhat Hanh. “It is probably because of that event fifty years ago that we’re meeting here today.”

And that I am HHC, I thought.

And that you, dear reader, are holding this book.

That evening, with a belly full of Mrs. Trinci’s delicious diced chicken liver, I sat on my newly cushioned sill, looking out at the green light glowing on the other side of the square. A gentle breeze carried the subtle fragrance of pine forests and lush rhododendron, along with the haunting chants of monks at prayer.

I found myself looking at the empty rock on which I’d first seen the tiger tabby. My tiger tabby. The one I very much hoped … Hold on a minute, I checked myself. Was this not a prime case of egocentric melodrama?

I was rather pleased that I had caught myself before going any further. And then I realized that being rather pleased with oneself also probably falls into the category of egocentric melodrama.

Oh, this Buddhist mind training! Can’t we deceive ourselves about anything? Not even a teensy weensy bit?

I remembered Thich Nhat Hanh: his poise, his strength, his simplicity.

I stared out meditatively into the darkness, at the green light burning at the other end of the square.

We’ll see.

CHAPTER EIGHT

If you are an especially astute observer of the feline condition, you may have gleaned a deeply personal insight about me. Not one I have consciously tried to convey. But like it or not, a writer betrays herself subliminally, not just in the words on the page but by leaving behind other subtle clues. A trail of psychological breadcrumbs, if you will, or perhaps, more accurately, a trail of flaked salmon. Ideally garnished with dill, or drizzled in a light but tangy dijonnaise.

Of course, you may not be reading this book in an environment that lends itself to forensic analysis. That is why I’m just going to come out with it and tell you the straightforward truth, which is—and it isn’t easy to bring myself to this confession—that I am a cat who enjoys her food. And when I say enjoy, I am not, regrettably, talking about being a gourmet.

I, dear reader, am a glutton.

I know, I know—it is hard to believe, isn’t it? You wouldn’t think of it to look at me, with my chocolate-box good looks and blue-eyed sophistication. But my lustrous pelt conceals a stomach that, in the past at least, was too large to be healthy and that used me as its slave.

I am certainly not proud to have been so much in thrall to food. Is there any culture on Earth that admires the greedy guts, the sybarite, the unfettered hedonist? But before you rush to judgment, let me ask you this: Have you ever tried to imagine what it would be like to spend a day in the life of a cat?

There's no thrilling anticipation of the day’s first cup of coffee, something I see written on the faces of Café Franc customers in the mornings. Nor the eye-closing delight of that first swallow of sauvignon blanc in the evening. We cats have no access to everyday mood-enhancing substances. Apart from humble catnip, there is no pharmaceutical refuge if we’re suffering from boredom, depression, existential crisis, or even an everyday headache.

All we have is food.

The question is, at what point does enjoying one’s sustenance turn from a healthy pleasure into a life-threatening obsession?

In my own case, I remember that day quite clearly.

His Holiness had been in town for more than six weeks without travel, during which his days had been filled with VIPs, some of whom were entertained at lunch. Mrs. Trinci had been a constant, operatic presence in the Jokhang kitchen, striving, with each day’s performance, to reach new heights of perfection.

Through all this she never forgot the needs of The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. Not only was I treated to a constant supply of delicacies, but over time I also collected an ever-growing list of new appellations. Dolce mio—my sweet—she’d coo, holding me to her generous bosom and kissing my neck. Tesorino—little treasure—she’d croon, setting a bountiful dish of diced chicken liver before me. For Mrs. Trinci, food was a physical manifestation of love, and she was effusively generous with both.