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

“Sì, sì!” She smiled ruefully.

“This is why you can call it a Treasure House. It offers many opportunities to cultivate patience and conquer anger. There is a word for this way of thinking.” His Holiness’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Reframing, we call it. Yes. Like that.”

“But what if I … fail?” Her voice was shaky.

“You keep trying. There are no instant results for a long-standing habit. But step by step you will definitely progress if you see the advantage.”

He looked at her anxious expression for a while before saying, “It helps if you have a calm mind. For that, meditation is most useful.”

“But I’m not a Buddhist.”

The Dalai Lama chuckled. “Meditation does not belong to Buddhists. People from every tradition meditate, and those who have no tradition benefit from it, too. You are a Catholic, and the Benedictine order has some most useful teachings on meditation. Perhaps you can try?”

As Mrs. Trinci’s audience came to an end, they stood.

“One day”—His Holiness took her hand and looked deep into her eyes—“perhaps you will see today as a turning point.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Mrs. Trinci only nodded as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

“When our understanding of something deepens to the point that it changes our behavior, in the Dharma we call this a realization. Perhaps today you have made a realization?”

“Sì, sì, Your Holiness.” Emotion tugged at her lips. “I certainly have.”

“Remember the words of the Buddha: ‘Though one man may conquer a thousand men a thousand times in battle, he who conquers himself is the greatest warrior.’”

My own realization occurred only a few weeks later.

I should have heeded the first warning—a remark I overheard Tenzin make to Chogyal when I strolled into our office one day.

“HHC is filling out,” he said. It was typical Tenzin, an observation so oblique that I had only the vaguest idea what it actually meant, so I couldn’t possibly take offense.

No diplomatic training was needed when I returned to Jokhang kitchen the following week for dinner courtesy of Mrs. Trinci.

An unfamiliar air of serenity had pervaded the kitchen on every one of Mrs. Trinci’s visits since the Raspberry Sorbet Crisis. Not only did calm prevail that afternoon but Mrs. Trinci had even brought in a CD player from which the heavenly Sanctus chorus of Fauré’s Requiem floated through the afternoon.

Walking into the kitchen, I greeted her with a friendly meow. I didn’t jump onto the counter for the simple reason that I knew I wouldn’t make it. So I looked at it instead.

Attentive as ever, Mrs. Trinci picked me up.

“Oh, poor little dolce mio, you can’t jump up any more!” she exclaimed, smooching me demonstratively. “It’s because you’ve put on so much weight.”

I’ve what?

“You’re overeating.”

She can’t be serious! Was this any way to talk to The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived? To Tesorino? To Cara Mia?

“You’ve become a real piggly-wiggly.”

I could hardly believe what I was hearing. The very idea was preposterous.

Piggly-wiggly? Me?!

I would have bitten deep into that tender spot between her thumb and index finger if it weren’t for the succulent wonder of the lamb shanks in rich gravy that she placed in front of me. Lapping up the piquant sauce, I was instantly engrossed in the savory stickiness of it. Mrs. Trinci’s bizarre and cruel remarks went completely out of my head.

An even greater humiliation was needed for me to face up to my expanding problem. Returning from a morning visit to the temple with His Holiness, I started up the stairs to our private quarters. Because my hind legs are so wobbly, I need to make this ascent at some speed. But in recent weeks, achieving the required velocity had become more and more of a challenge.

That morning, as it happened, it was a challenge too big.