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

“Scent?”

“Or she could have seen smoke,” suggested someone.

“Sixth sense,” said Carlos, offering a more flattering explanation.

I remembered the huge rat that had appeared from nowhere and my shock at seeing it, followed by the involuntary yowl its appearance had provoked.

“She certainly knew how to warn us!” said Merrilee.

Ludo looked at me with an expression of profound gratitude. “For that, Swami will always be a guest of honor at our studio.”

It was only later, as we were leaving and people were in the hallway putting on their shoes, that Merrilee noticed Serena’s scarf.

“You were lucky,” she said, taking the edge of it between her thumb and forefinger. “You normally leave this—”

“—on the balcony,” Serena finished. “It would have gone up in smoke.”

“But not tonight?”

“That’s the weird thing,” Serena said. “I could have sworn I put it outside. But apparently it was here, beside my bag, all along.”

“You don’t think … ?” Merrilee started to say.

“Here she is!” interjected Sid, stroking my face with his smooth fingertips as Serena held onto me. “A very special being.”

What was it that made me feel so close to this tall Indian man with the sparkling eyes? “The one,” he continued, “who knows much but says little.”

I looked up at Sid, recollecting the rat on the scarf. If I knew much but said little, what could be said of him?

Later that evening I curled up on the yak blanket that His Holiness kept on his bed for my exclusive use. As I hovered in that gentle, drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep, images from last night’s dream and this evening’s fire flashed through my mind, and I thought about what the biologist had said about the sentience of animals. It occurred to me that one of the most obvious but overlooked facts about happiness is that all of us sem chens—humans, felines, even rats—are equal in our wish to attain it. If each of us has been some other kind of sem chen in a previous life, and might be again in the future, then the happiness of all living beings, whatever the species, is our only worthy goal.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Exploring the art of purring had taken more intriguing twists than I could ever have imagined. But despite the wisdom I had gained in the past few weeks, there was still, dear reader, a very basic question about happiness that troubled me: why could I be contentedly padding along, minding my own business, when for no reason at all a sense of disgruntlement would come over me? A productive morning of meditation, grooming, and cello-recital—as we cats refer to that most intimate part of our grooming routine—could inexplicably turn bleak and gray. An afternoon down at the Himalaya Book Café that began with the wonderfully promising arrival of a plate of poached sea trout could draw to a sluggish and querulous close. Nothing in particular might have happened to cause this change of feeling. Had I been shooed off a windowsill, had my tail tugged by a spiteful child, or been prodded from a catnap for an enforced photo opportunity—such is the price of fame—my peevishness would be perfectly understandable.

But I hadn’t. So it isn’t.

The wisdom I’d received sitting on the lap of the Dalai Lama had made me much more aware of what went on in my mind and much less prone to these invisible ups and downs. Even so, there could be no denying that warm, good feelings could subtly give way to a darker mood. And so it was when one morning, without any effort on my part, the truth was revealed in all its perfect obviousness.

It started when Tenzin came over to where I was sprawled across the top of the filing cabinet.

“You may be interested to know, HHC, that your favorite person in the world is coming in this morning.”

The Dalai Lama? By my reckoning he was exactly nine sleeps away, not counting catnaps.

“In a couple of weeks, His Holiness will be back among us,” Tenzin continued. “From the moment he gets back he has a very busy schedule. Lots of guests to cater for. Which is why our VIP chef is coming to take stock. She wants everything shipshape ahead of his arrival.”

Mrs. Trinci was coming! The queen of Jokhang’s kitchen and my generous benefactor!

As Tenzin stroked my cheek I seized his forefinger between my teeth, holding it for a few moments before licking away the trace of carbolic.

Tenzin chuckled. “Oh, little Snow Lion, you’re too funny. But Mrs. Trinci isn’t cooking anything today, so don’t go to the kitchen expecting any treats.”

I met his cautionary expression with my most imperious blue gaze. For a seasoned diplomat, Tenzin could be remarkably obtuse. Did he seriously think that Mrs. Trinci could resist me, especially after such a long absence? A single look of blue-eyed tenderness was all it would take. Perhaps a beseeching curl of the tail around her leg. At the very most, a pleading meow, and Jokhang’s VIP chef would be warming up a treat for my delectation faster than you could say “diced chicken liver.”

With a spring in my admittedly erratic step, I was soon on my way downstairs.

I arrived in the kitchen to find Mrs. Trinci in her familiar apron, holding a clipboard and pen, calling out a list of items while Lobsang and Serena replied from the refrigeration room and pantry, respectively.