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

“The Dalai Lama’s cat.”

“Really?”

“Comes in here all the time.”

“Amazing!” The usual carbolic tang of Tenzin’s fingers intermingled with a potent dose of Kouros as he reached up to scratch my chin.

“She has a very close karmic connection to His Holiness,” Franc told His Holiness’s right-hand man.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Tenzin mused, before posing a question that Franc had not yet considered. “I wonder if she is missed by His Holiness’s household when she comes visiting?”

“I doubt it very much,” Franc returned smoothly. “But if they found her here, they’d soon realize how well she’s looked after.”

“That is a nice cushion.”

“Not just the cushion, dear. It’s lunch that she enjoys.”

“Hungry, is she?”

“Loves her food. Adores her food.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t get enough food at Jokhang?” Tenzin suggested.

“I’m sure it’s not that. It’s just that Rinpoche has particular tastes.”

“Rinpoche?” Tenzin wore a droll expression.

“That’s her name.” Franc had said it so many times now that he had actually come to believe it. “And you can see why, can’t you?”

“As the Dharma tells us”—Tenzin’s reply was cryptic—“everything depends on mind.”

Back at home several afternoons later, Tenzin sat opposite His Holiness in the familiar office. It was something of a ritual at the end of the working day—Tenzin updating His Holiness on any matter of importance and the two of them talking about what needed to be done, while enjoying freshly brewed cups of green tea.

I was on my usual windowsill, watching the sun slip below the horizon and only half-listening to their discussion, which ranged, as usual, from global geopolitics to the finer points of esoteric Buddhist philosophy.

“Oh, Your Holiness, turning to more important matters”—Tenzin closed the United Nations file in front of him—“I’m pleased to tell you that I’ve solved the mystery of HHC’s eating disorder.”

A glint appeared in the Dalai Lama’s eyes as he responded to Tenzin’s expression. “Please”— he leaned back in his chair—“go on.”

“It seems that our little Snow Lion isn’t losing her appetite after all. Instead, she’s been taking herself down the road to the brasserie run by our designer-Buddhist friend.”

“Brasserie?”

“Just down the road,” he gestured. “With the red-and-yellow umbrellas outside.”

“Oh, yes. I know the place.” His Holiness nodded. “I hear they have very good food. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved there!”

“As it happens, the owner is very much a dog lover.”

“He is?”

“He has some special breed.”

“But he also feeds our little one?”

“Reveres her because he knows she lives with you.”

His Holiness chuckled.