Fur balls. There are few things more unpleasant, don’t you agree, dear reader?
Oh, come, come. There’s no need to play the innocent with me! Just because you’re human doesn’t make you immune to self-obsession. Is it not the case that from time to time you experience excessive concern about how you come across to other beings? That you obsess about your clothing, footwear, adornments, and grooming, all of which have rather more to do with an image you wish to project to the world than matters of simple practicality?
When talking about yourself, that subtle aside about the fancy brand of merchandise recently acquired, the romantic attention you are receiving, or the extraordinary yoga position you are now capable of assuming—is it not the case that such remarks are also intended to conjure up a particular impression you wish to create about yourself?
And who, pray tell, occupies the majority of your thoughts from the moment you wake up till the time you go to sleep? Who, exactly, is the cause of your greatest anxiety and stress? Can you think of a certain party—perhaps not so far from the space you currently occupy—who at some time has become so caught up in a downward spiral of self-obsession that despite all their frenetic licking, scratching, and grooming, despite all their crazed efforts to feel better about themselves, all they have succeeded in doing is ingesting such large quantities of self-regarding detritus that they have made themselves sick—quite literally, perhaps?
If an uncomfortable lump is forming in your throat simply from reading these few paragraphs, then you most certainly understand the vexation of fur balls. If not, you are clearly a better adjusted being than most, in which case I apologize for impugning your character. You certainly have no need to read this chapter, so may I suggest you proceed immediately to the next?
Having been torn away from my mother and family at an early age, there are certain aspects of cat behavior of which I was wholly ignorant. Which was why my first fur-ball experience was as unexpected as it was unpleasant. One of the burdens of being a sumptuously beautiful cat of the kind that occasionally graces the boxes of the most expensive Belgian pralines is that grooming can become a compulsive activity. It’s all too easy to get caught up in a cycle of licking and preening without realizing what the consequences will be.
The morning I spent on the filing cabinet, vigorously engaged in just this activity, Tenzin glanced sharply in my direction several times, and Chogyal even came over and tried to distract me—to no avail. The initial tingle I had felt seemed to grow more and more intense and widespread until I couldn’t stop licking!
And then it struck. Suddenly, I knew I had to get down onto the floor. Making my way across the office, directly past Kyi Kyi’s basket, I had no sooner reached the corridor when I felt my stomach turn. It was as though all my insides wanted to come out. I crouched low on the carpet, my whole body racked with wheezing. The rhythm of the violent spasms increased rapidly until … well, it’s probably best that I spare you the details.
Leaping to his feet, Chogyal seized a copy of that day’s newspaper. He used the women’s fashion section to clean up the rug on which I had deposited copious quantities of my own fur. I slunk to the kitchen for a cleansing drink, and by the time I made my way back, there was no sign of the horror that had befallen me in the calm sanctuary of the hallway.
I resumed my place on the filing cabinet, falling into a deep slumber. There’s nothing like a good, long sleep to allow unpleasantness to recede into the past.
Except that on that occasion, I was awoken by a powerful and disorientating f
ragrance. Was that not the unmistakable aroma of Kouros, which usually preceded Franc by several yards? But I wasn’t at Café Franc! Moments later came confirmation in the form of Franc’s unmistakably San Franciscan cadences.
Neither Chogyal nor Tenzin was in the office, but there, in the door frame, was the round-eared silhouette of Marcel. Moments later, Chogyal arrived with a leash. Stirring Kyi Kyi from his slumbers, he clipped the leash to his collar and led him to where Marcel was straining at his own lead, tail wagging in a frenzy of anticipation.
Franc and Chogyal talked in the corridor, while the two dogs commenced sniffing each other’s backsides. Completely absorbed in what was happening, Franc didn’t notice me on my viewing platform, watching events unfold. Although I had been disconcerted by the unexpected arrival of Tenzin in Café Franc some weeks earlier, as I watched events unfold now, it all began to make a kind of sense.
Franc was on his best behavior. Formally dressed in a dark jacket and polished brogues, he was as solicitous as when the most important of VIPs appeared in his café. Chogyal, meantime, was his usual unaffected self, as he related the story of how Kyi Kyi had come to take up residence at Jokhang.
The men took the dogs for a walk in the courtyard outside. Crossing to a window that afforded a better view, I continued to watch the proceedings. Free of their leashes, Marcel and Kyi Kyi chased each other, playing and scuffling. It seemed that the two dogs could indeed become friends.
On their return, Chogyal and Franc began discussing Kyi Kyi’s eating and sleeping habits. Then I heard Chogyal saying, “All of us, including His Holiness, would be very grateful if you would consider—”
“No need to consider,” Franc assured him. “The two dogs are going to get on fine. It will be my honor.”
Chogyal looked down at Kyi Kyi with a smile. “He has been here only a short time, but we will miss him.”
“I can bring him back to visit,” Franc replied.
At that moment the door to His Holiness’s office opened and out he came.
As Franc bowed with elaborate formality, the Dalai Lama, chuckling, brought his hands to his forehead.
“This is Franc, Your Holiness. He has kindly agreed to look after Kyi Kyi.”
“Very good.” The Dalai Lama reached out to take Franc’s hand between his own. “Wonderful compassion.” Then he spotted all the blessing strings tied around Franc’s wrist. “You have received many blessings?”
As usual, Franc recited the list of initiations he had received from various high-ranking lamas during the preceding decade. His Holiness listened patiently before asking, “Who is your teacher?”
“All of the lamas who have given me initiations,” replied Franc, as though repeating an article of faith.
“It is useful,” said His Holiness, “to have a regular teacher and attend classes. Initiations and textbooks are helpful. More helpful is to practice under the guidance of a qualified teacher. If you wanted to learn the piano, would you not find the best piano teacher you could—and stick with him or her? It is the same with the Dharma. Like that.”
The advice seemed revelatory to Franc, who took a while to process it. After a few moments he asked, “Is there any teacher you’d recommend?”
“For you?” His Holiness seemed captivated by the gold Om dangling from Franc’s left ear as he considered an answer. Finally, he said, “You may ask Geshe Wangpo, here at Namgyal Monastery. I think he would be right for you.”
A short while later, Franc left Jokhang, taking Kyi Kyi with him. I was curious to know how the day’s events would be recounted under the jaunty umbrellas of Café Franc. And I couldn’t help wondering if I would retain my position of grace and favor at the café, between the latest issues of Vogue and Vanity Fair. Now that Franc had accepted guardianship of a being who was sure to become known as the Dalai Lama’s Dog, would I still be the main object of such veneration?