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

Chogyal put me back on the carpet.

“What about just ‘Mouser’ for an ordination name?” suggested the driver. But because of his strong, Tibetan accent, it sounded like “Mousie.”

All three men were now looking at me intently. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn that I have regretted ever since.

“You can’t have just ‘Mousie,’” said Chogyal. “It has to be Something Mousie or Mousie Something.”

“Mousie Monster?” contributed Tenzin.

“Mousie Slayer?” suggested Chogyal.

There was a pause before the driver came out with it. “What about Mousie-Tung?” he suggested.

All three men burst out laughing as they looked down at my small, fluffy form.

Tenzin turned mock-serious as he regarded me directly. “Compassion is all very well. But do you think His Holiness should be sharing his quarters with Mousie-Tung?”

“Or leaving Mousie-Tung in charge for three weeks when he visits Australia?” mused Chogyal, as the three collapsed in laughter again.

Getting up, I stalked from the room, ears pressed back firmly and tail slashing.

In the hours that followed, as I sat in the tranquil sunlight of His Holiness’s window, I began to realize the enormity of what I’d done. For almost all my young life I had been listening to the Dalai Lama point out that the lives of all sentient beings are as important to them as our own life is to us. But how much attention had I paid to that on the one and only occasion I was out in the world?

As for the truth that all beings wish to be happy and to avoid suffering—that thought hadn’t crossed my mind while I was stalking the mouse. I had simply let instinct take over. Not for one moment had I considered my actions from the mouse’s point of view.

I was beginning to realize that just because an idea is simple, it isn’t necessarily easy to follow. Purring in agreement with high-sounding principles meant nothing unless I actually lived by them.

I wondered if His Holiness would be told my new “ordination name”—the grim reminder of the greatest folly of my young life. Would he be so horrified when he heard what I’d done that he would banish me from this beautiful haven forever?

Fortunately for me, the mouse recovered. And when His Holiness returned, he was immediately caught up in a series of meetings.

It wasn’t until late in the evening that he mentioned the subject. He had been sitting up in bed reading before closing his book, removing his glasses, and placing them on the bedside table.

“They told me what happened,” he murmured, reaching over to where I was dozing nearby. “Sometimes our instinct, our negative conditioning, can be overpowering. Later we regret very much what we have done. But that is no reason to give up on yourself—the buddhas, they have not given up on you. Instead, learn from your mistake and move on. Like that.”

He turned out the bedside light, and as we both lay there in the darkness, I purred gently in appreciation.

“Tomorrow we start again,” he said.

The next day, His Holiness was going through the few pieces of mail his executive assistants had selected for his attention from the sackfuls that arrived every morning.

Holding up a letter and a book sent by the history professor from England, he turned to Chogyal. “This is very nice.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Chogyal agreed, studying the glossy cover of the book.

“I am not thinking about the book,” said His Holiness, “but the letter.”

“Oh?”

“After reflecting on

our conversation, the professor says he has stopped using snail bait on his roses. Instead, he now releases the snails over the garden wall.”

“Very good!” said Chogyal with a smile.

The Dalai Lama looked directly at me. “We liked meeting him, didn’t we?” I remembered that at the time, I had thought how deeply unenlightened the professor seemed. But after what I’d done yesterday, I was hardly one to judge.

“It shows that we all have the ability to change, doesn’t it, Mousie?”