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

For a moment the whole world seemed to pause, holding its breath, waiting for the great mystery of my identity to be revealed.

“Yes, Mambo,” I confirmed eventually, fixing him with my big, blue eyes. “But don’t make a big thing of it.”

His voice sank to a whisper. “I can’t believe it. Me, from the slums of Dharamsala. You with your own initials. I mean, you’re practically royalty!”

“A cat might be … ” What could I say without seeming impossibly vain? His Holiness’s Bodhicatva? Café Franc’s Rinpoche? Mrs. Trinci’s Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived? Chogyal and Tenzin’s Snow Lion? (Or, heaven forbid, the driver’s Mousie-Tung?) “A cat might be HHC,” I said finally, “but she is still … very much … a cat.”

“I hear what you’re saying.”

I very much doubted it. I wasn’t entirely sure myself what I meant. “So what did you have in mind for tonight?”

I will, dear reader, spare you the details of all that occurred on that and subsequent nights. I am not that kind of cat. This is not that kind of book. And you are most certainly not that kind of reader!

Suffice it to say that not a day passed that I didn’t, with all my heart, thank Lobsang for his words of wisdom. Shantideva, too. And Dharamsala Telecom for sending their disgruntled technical support services representative to Jokhang.

About two months after Raj Goel’s visits, I was in

my customary spot on the filing cabinet in the executive assistants’ office when Lobsang came by.

“Something for you got caught up in our post today,” Tenzin told him, flicking through some envelopes on his desk before retrieving a glossy postcard of a glamorous female celebrity.

“Raj Goel?” Lobsang scanned the card and read the signature, trying to place the name. “Oh, that Raj!”

“Friend?” inquired Tenzin.

“Remember the fellow from Dharamsala Telecom who came to check our line fault a couple of months ago? Turns out, he now works for one of the biggest phone companies in America.”

Tenzin’s eyebrows flickered upward momentarily. “I hope he’s improved his manners, or he won’t be working there very long.”

“I am sure his manners are much improved,” said Lobsang, “now that he’s escaped his own fear of failure.”

He chuckled as he continued to read the card. “Just last week he repaired the telephone of this one.” He held up the postcard.

“Who is she?” asked Chogyal.

“A very famous American actress who is also something of a patron saint of stray cats.” He turned to look at me with a knowing expression that belied his claim not to have any special qualities.

“This postcard closes the circle on our meeting with Raj Goel very nicely, wouldn’t you say, HHC?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Is there a downside to being the Dalai Lama’s Cat?

Simply asking the question may seem preposterous or suggest such base ingratitude that you many want to dismiss me this instant as an overpampered wretch, one of those flat-faced, long-haired felines whose expression of icy hauteur gives the impression that nothing ever will be quite good enough for them.

But not so fast, dear reader. Are there not two sides to every story?

It’s true that there can be few cats in history who have benefited from the peerless conditions in which I find myself. Not only are all my material needs fulfilled and my whims indulged—sometimes before I’m even aware of them myself—but my cerebral world is enlivened by the rich variety of visitors and activities that swirl around me. Emotionally, it would be hard to imagine being more loved, worshipped, and adored by those for whom I, in turn, have only the most heartfelt devotion.

And spiritually, as you already know, all it takes is for His Holiness to step into a room, and all ordinary appearances and conceptions seem to dissolve away, leaving only an abiding sensation of profound well-being. Given that I spend so much of each day in his presence, sleep through every night at the foot of his bed, and spend many hours in his lap, I must be one of the most blissed-out cats on the planet.

Where, pray tell, is the downside of all of that?

As the Dalai Lama frequently explains, inner development is something for which we must each take personal responsibility. Other beings cannot make us more mindful, so that we can experience the rich tapestry of everyday experience to the fullest. Similarly, other beings cannot force us to become more patient or kind, no matter how conducive to our contentment patience or kindness would be. As for improving concentration while meditating, this is, quite obviously, something we need to do for ourselves.

And so we come to the heart of the matter, the cause of my embarrassing but undeniable vexation.

Day after day, I sit in audiences with His Holiness, listening to the meditation experiences of advanced practitioners, knowing that I am incapable of meditating for more than two minutes without being distracted. Not a week goes by that I don’t hear about amazing adventures in consciousness undertaken by yogis who are asleep or technically—if temporarily—dead. But when I close my own eyes each night, I quickly fall into a state of heavy, oblivious torpor.