The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow (The Dalai Lama's Cat 3)

My every instinct was for escape. Getting out of the box wasn’t easy, given the limited space between the top of it and the shelf above it. I had to scramble for quite a while, but I finally managed to kick against the edge of the box. I flopped down on the other side of it in an ungainly fashion. I made my way along the shelf and to the corner.

No sooner was I there than the archive door began opening, creating a sliding wall of light. A monk stepped inside.

I meowed pitifully.

The monk ignored me. He casually placed a large, heavy book on top of the box from which I had only just escaped. He did an about-face. As he did, I saw it was one of the monks who ran errands on behalf of the senior lamas—the one who was deaf.

Before I could think of any way to attract his attention, he had slammed the archive door shut. I was returned to darkness. I recognized that, if I had woken only minutes later, I would have found myself trapped in the box with no possibility of escape.

It was a sobering recognition. As was the knowledge that the meditation session I had started earlier had turned out to be less of a revelatory experience than I had hoped. I may have enjoyed greater freedom from agitation than usual, but it seemed that my mind had quickly succumbed to dullness.

There was nothing for me to do but wait. I had no idea how often the archive room was used or how often people walked past it. I had no way of getting to the floor—I was too high up. Being a cat with weak rear legs on account of a kittenhood injury, I was unable to leap from great heights. My only choice was to stay where I was, listen carefully for passersby, and meow very loudly.

After what felt like an interminable wait, I became aware of the door rolling open again. I raised my head and meowed loudly at the same instant that a monk stepped inside and switched the lights on.

It was Oliver. He looked over to find the source of the meow.

“HHC!” he exclaimed when he saw me huddled in the corner. He frowned at the battered cardboard box directly in front of him and reached out to touch the heavy book on top of it.

“Good Lord!” he said. It wasn’t an expression I’d heard a Tibetan monk use before. “How on earth did you escape from there?”

Then he scooped me off the shelf and carried me outside, locking the archive door behind him. I allowed him to carry me along a winding corridor that eventually led to the temple and out into the familiarity of the courtyard before struggling to be put down.

“Don’t you want to come home, HHC?”

Early-afternoon sunshine filtered through the clouds. Having been trapped in darkness for the past few hours, what did he think? I continued to struggle.

Oliver evidently had different ideas about what should happen next, so I had to extend my claws—just slightly—to show I meant business. After one further scramble, I tumbled out of his arms and to the ground. Finding my feet, I raced across the courtyard as fast as my wonkiness would allow.

Oliver pursued me, but slowly. At the gates, I turned and glanced back to see him trotting in my direction.

“HHC!” he was calling. “Come back here, you mischievous wretch!”

I could see that his heart wasn’t in the chase. Darting to the left, I made my way behind some bushes at the side of the road. I was free!

I hadn’t progressed much farther along the road when I caught a whiff of it again—that bewitchingly compulsive scent. I quickly abandoned my original impulse to visit the Himalaya Book Café and search for an afternoon treat. I remembered the first time I’d first detected that scent on the upstairs windowsill. And again, the evening with Geshe Wangpo, when I decided that it must be coming from somewhere along this road.

Paws hastening, I continued on my way until I had passed the boundary of Namgyal and come to the small, secluded garden that lay between Namgyal Monastery and a retirement home. I would visit here from time to time to attend to the calls of nature. As I clambered toward the garden today, I glanced across the lush, green square and its vast, mature cedar tree canopy, nostrils flaring. Each side of the garden was bordered by flower beds containing agapanthus, calla lilies, dahlias, and other flowering plants. The beds contained neatly raked, loose soil—very convenient for feline comfort. But I could detect no sign of that particular smell.

The garden may have been a horticultural haven, but today, as always, it was deserted. The inviting wooden bench under the boughs of the cedar tree was empty. Residents of the retirement home sometimes sat on a veranda that overlooked the verdant space, but they were nowhere to be seen. Occasionally, I had noticed that the door of a wooden shed in the corner of the garden would be left open. A figure sometimes moved about inside. But apart from that, I had never seen a human anywhere near the place.

I was beginning to think I’d have to go farther along the road to find the origin of the scent when the wind changed, and, suddenly, I caught a gust of it fully in the face: intense, unmistakable, and coming from very close by.

I began scampering across the lawn against the direction the wind was blowing. The lure of it was irresistible. As I walked, it grew stronger. Soon I crossed the grass and found myself at a flower bed. I came face-to-face with a cluster of plants with heart-shaped leaves and white flowers. Their abundant, mesmerizing, heady perfume filled the air.

I began chewing their green stalks. Dear reader, I had no choice. I was compelled! Reaching into the bed, I licked the stems and shook my head. I found myself so overcome with desire for this strange fragrance that I began to quiver. I rubbed my face against the plants. Then I launched myself completely into the bed, crushing stalks and bringing flowers down upon me.

Oh bliss!

I stretched and rolled and curled my whole body into the redolent foliage. I couldn’t get enough! Never had I abandoned myself so completely to such sensual indulgence—not even during my ill-fated romance with the mackerel tabby. Could this be the legendary catnip? The plant whose potent, almost magical effect is one for which we cats are born with such an unfettered craving?

At some point the effect started to wear off. The pleasure became less vivid. The scent less beguiling. Curled like a furry croissant in the flower bed, I closed my eyes and felt the warm afternoon sun on my face.

Time for a nap.

As I dozed off, I found myself wondering dreamily how it was I had never found these flowers here before. Who had planted them? And why?

That night as I relaxed on a sofa, His Holiness sat beside me, reading. After an adventure-filled day, I had returned home ravenous, and I now sat with a tummy full of food, content and replete.