The Art of Purring (The Dalai Lama's Cat 2)

And me, dear reader? Having no aspirations to play the saxophone or even the piccolo, I didn’t plan on giving up my lunchtime visits to the Himalaya Book Café. But Chogyal’s death had been an urgent reminder: Life is finite; every day is precious. And simply to wake up in good health truly is a blessing, because sickness and death can strike at a moment’s notice.

Even though I had known this before—it was, after all, a theme His Holiness often spoke about—there is a big difference between accepting an idea and changing your behavior. I had been complacent before, but now I realized that each day of good health and freedom was another day in which to create the causes and conditions for a happier future.

Boredom? Lethargy? They seem so irrelevant when remembering how quickly time passes. I understood with stark clarity that for a truly happy and meaningful life, it is necessary first to face death. Authentically, not just as an idea. Because after that, the twilight skies are never so resplendent, the curls of incense never so mesmerizing, the smoked salmon morsels garnished with Dijonnaise sauce down at the café never so lip-smackingly, whisker-tinglingly, tail-swishingly delicious.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was about 35 nights into the 49 for which His Holiness was scheduled to be away that I realized something had gone missing from my life. It had slipped away so gradually that I hadn’t noticed its absence until it had disappeared almost entirely: I had stopped purring.

I would still purr when Tenzin turned his attention from the marginally important correspondence with world leaders lodged inside the filing cabinet to the far more significant being lying on top of it. And I was also unfailing in signaling my appreciation of the delicious meals served at the Himalaya Book Café.

But apart from this sporadic incidental purring, I had remained mute for most of the past week. And it was doing me no good. Which brings me back to the central question of my investigations: Why do cats purr?

The answer may seem perfectly obvious, but as with most other feline activities, it is more complex than it appears. Yes, we purr because we’re content. The warmth of a hearth, the intimacy of a lap, the promise of a saucer of milk—all of these may prompt our laryngeal muscles to vibrate at an impressive rate.

But contentment is not the only trigger. Just as a human may smile when she’s feeling nervous or because she wants to appeal to your better nature, so cats may purr. A visit to the vet or a trip in the car may prompt us to purr to reassure ourselves. And should your footsteps in the kitchen lead you almost but not quite to the only cupboard of feline interest, you may well hear a throaty purr as we curl a tail suggestively around your leg or plead with a more imperative swishing around your ankles.

Bioaccoustical researchers will tell you something else fascinating: the frequency of a cat’s purr is ideal therapy for pain relief, wound healing, and bone growth. We cats generate healing sound waves much the way electrical stimulation is used increasingly in medicine, except that we do it naturally and spontaneously for our own benefit. (Note to cat lovers: Should your darling feline seem to be purring much more than usual, perhaps it’s time to pay a visit to the vet. She may know something about her health that you do not.)

But apart from these reasons for purring there is another reason—arguably the most important reason of them all. Just how important I hadn’t realized until Sam Goldberg left his door open by mistake.

Few things are more intriguing to a cat than the discovery of a door, hitherto resolutely shut, that has now been left ajar. The opportunity to explore unknown, even forbidden territory is one that we are powerless to resist—which is why I got waylaid late one afternoon when I was about to make my way back to Jokhang. Hopping down from the magazine rack, I noticed that the door behind the bookstore counter was open, and I revised my plans. I knew that the door led upstairs to Sam’s apartment. When Franc had hired Sam to set up and manage the bookstore, the deal they struck included Sam’s use of the apartment, which until then had functioned as a storage area.

Without hesitation I slipped through the crack in the door, immediately encountering a flight of stairs. They were steep and narrow, covered with musty carpet, and would take a while to climb. But ignoring the stiffness in my hips, I pressed on toward the light issuing from a second door at the top of the stairs. Also ajar, it led into Sam’s flat.

I often wondered what Sam got up to when he went upstairs, because from my vantage point, his working life seemed rather dull. While he spent part of each day talking to customers, or opening fresh consignments from publishers, or rearranging the books on display, most of the time he remained behind the counter, glued to his computer. Exactly what he was working on was a mystery. When speaking to Serena, he sometimes used terms like inventory program, publishers’ catalogs, and accounting package. And he often joked about being a geek, liberated the moment he sat behind a keyboard.

But for all those hours? Every day? That made me all the more curious about what I would discover at the top of the stairs.

There was no question that Sam had an interesting mind. People often pronounced him an amazing thinker after a conversation in which they had discussed subjects like the spontaneous manifestation of Tibetan symbols on cave walls, or the similarities between the biographies and teachings of Jesus and Buddha. I wondered if his apartment would be similarly engaging.

I was still mulling over the possibilities when I finally reached the top of the stairs. Realizing that my appearance would be unexpected, I inched forward carefully. Squeezing through the gap between the door and the doorjamb, I found myself in a large, sparsely furnished room. The stark white walls were bare, devoid of pictures. On the left side of the room there was a double bed covered with a faded blue duvet. On the wall to the right were two windows with wooden Venetian blinds. Against the wall opposite the door was a desk with three large computer monitors. Sam was sitting at the desk with his back to me. The floor around him was covered with a tangle of cables and computer equipment.

So this was how Sam spent his evenings? Exchanging a seat in front of the screen downstairs for a seat in front of another? There was a beanbag chair in one corner of the apartment. But from the looks of things, most of Sam’s time was spent at the computer. Right now he was involved in a video conference call, and there were thumbnail images of the other participants on the monitor screens. I’d heard him explain to Serena that this was one way he kept up with authors, managing sometimes to coax any who were traveling through India to visit the store for a talk or a book signing.

With Sam engrossed in video conferencing, I glanced around the room. My attention was drawn to a cluster of small, round, neon-yellow objects that I instantly recognized from the sports segment on TV: golf balls! Beside them, resting against the door frame, was a putter.

Stealthily I crept toward the balls. When I was a short distance away I crouched down in

the stance of a jungle beast and then pounced on the balls, sending one skating across the floor at high speed. It hit the baseboard on the opposite wall with a sharp thwack.

Sam spun around and caught me with my paws wrapped around another ball and my mouth open as if to take a bite.

“Rinpoche!” he called out, looking from me to the open door. I flicked away the ball and scampered around the room in a mad frenzy before leaping onto his bed.

He grinned.

“What’s happening?” a voice said from one of the speakers.

Sam trained his camera on me for a moment. “Unexpected visitor.”

From around the world came a chorus of ooh-ing and ah-ing.

“I didn’t know you were into cats,” said a man with an American accent.

Sam shook his head. “Not as a rule, but this one is rather special. You see, she’s the Dalai Lama’s Cat.”

“And she visits you in your home?” someone asked, incredulous.