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

“Ten pints of natural Greek yogurt?”

“Yes,” answered Lobsang.

“When do they expire?”

“End of next month.”

?

??All of them?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

“Pitted prunes? There should be four large tins.”

“Only three,” responded Serena.

“Oh, porca miseria!—bloody hell! Now I remember. One of the tins rusted through. We had to throw it out.”

Seeing some movement out the corner of her eye, she turned to see me wobbling toward her.

“Dolce Mio!” In an instant her tone changed to such effusive adoration that even I found it hard to believe I was the cause of it.

“How is my little bella, my little beauty?” She swept me off my paws, showered me with kisses, and placed me on a counter. “I have missed you so much! Have you missed me?”

As she ran her bejeweled fingers through my thick coat, I purred appreciatively. This was a wonderfully familiar prelude to what was sure to be an even more delightfully rewarding experience.

“Are we finished in here?” Lobsang called out from the walk-in refrigerator.

“For the moment,” Mrs. Trinci replied distractedly. “Tea break!”

Swooping into her tote bag, she took out a sealed plastic bowl and removed the lid. “I kept the tiniest soupçon of last night’s goulash for you,” she told me. “I warmed it up before coming. I hope it meets the standards of your rarefied palate.”

Mrs. Trinci’s Hungarian goulash was as deliciously succulent and its gravy as whisker-tinglingly sublime as any food could be.

“Oh, tesorino, my little treasure!” she exclaimed, studying me closely through her mascara-lashed amber eyes as I bent to devour the goulash with noisy delight. “You are truly,” she pronounced breathlessly, “the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived.”

A short while later, Mrs. Trinci, Serena, and Lobsang were sitting on stools at the kitchen counter, sipping mugs of tea and munching on coconut slice that Mrs. Trinci had brought with her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Trinci,” Lobsang said, holding up the piece he was eating and smiling broadly. “Very good of you to remember.” Her coconut slice had been a favorite of his since childhood.

They all chuckled.

“Just like old times,” said Serena.

“Ah, yes.” Mrs. Trinci sighed happily. “When was the last time the three of us worked together here—twelve years ago?”

After a pause, Lobsang said, “I think fourteen.”

“Who would have thought that my two kitchen hands would do so well for themselves, eh? The Dalai Lama’s translator. A high-flying chef from Europe. Everything changes.”

“Impermanence,” agreed Lobsang.

“Well, not everything has changed,” said Serena. “We’re all a bit older; we’ve seen a bit of the world. But we’re still the same people. Especially the way we feel about important things.” She gazed at Lobsang. “That hasn’t changed.”

Lobsang stared into mid space contemplatively for a few moments before replying. “True. I still think your mother’s coconut slice is the best of all confectionary.”