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

“Thank you, Your Holiness, for everything you have done for me and for Serena.”

His glow filled the room.

“You might like to know that she will soon be moving quite close to you. Just down the road,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the bungalow. “She and Siddhartha are making a home there.”

The Dalai Lama nodded. “I think she mentioned . . . some delays?”

“Sì, sì. But no more. The builder has promised to be ready. They are having a housewarming party in a few weeks. I know you don’t visit people at home usually, but I thought I should mention it, because the house is just ten minutes from here.”

“A near neighbor,” confirmed His Holiness.

“It would be a wonderful surprise for Serena and Sid if you would consider blessing their new home . . .”

A week later, at the end of the working day, there was a knock on His Holiness’s door. Tenzin and Oliver appeared, and in their hands they held printouts of the completed census. For some time the three men sat at a low coffee table, poring over the figures, comparing the latest results with those from previous years and noting some of the more interesting finds—including the long lives enjoyed by the devoted meditators of Herne Hill.

It was only after they had finished going through the report and were leaning back in their chairs that Tenzin glanced over at Oliver as though seeking his permission before clearing his throat.

“Your Holiness, we have a suggestion to make about the arrangements in your executive assistants’ office.”

“Go on.” His Holiness nodded.

“It is only an idea, at this point. But you know how much difficulty we’ve had trying to find a replacement for Chogyal’s position.”

“Indeed.”

On the sill, I raised my head and turned to regard them closely. Exactly who would sit in Chogyal’s seat was a matter of great importance not only to the Dalai Lama but also to me. Some of the candidates Tenzin had considered had not been what you’d call cat friendly. Venerable Monkey-face—a name I had given to one very gnarled and wizened contender—had made a point of studiously ignoring me. Even when I jumped up to the middle of his desk, he tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

Then there had been the Giant Cat Crusher, a mountain of a monk whose idea of a gentle stroke had pulverized my whole body. Less than a half hour in his presence had persuaded me to avoid going anywhere near the executive assistants’ office for as long as I heard his voice booming down the corridor.

“Working together on the census has made me realize that I have some of the knowledge and skills necessary for the monastic position,” offered Tenzin. “At the same time, Oliver’s language abilities in some ways make him more highly qualified than me for my own job.”

“I see . . .” The Dalai Lama wore an earnest expression.

“It really is only an idea, at this stage,” said Oliver. “And we haven’t discussed it with anyone else yet. But it may be easier to find someone to take on as a translator—”

“The young monk from Ladakh?” Tenzin offered.

“I’m sure he would grow into the role very well,” observed Oliver.

His Holiness looked from Oliver to Tenzin carefully. “A monk as a diplomat, and a layperson as a monastic adviser,” he mused.

The two men exchanged a glance.

“Usually, this arrangement could not work,” the Dalai Lama said, shaking his head. “But with the two of you . . .” He gestured, opening both hands while a smile appeared on his face. “I think . . . very good!”

Oliver and Tenzin left the room, closing the door behind them. The Dalai Lama came over to where I was sitting and watching twilight fall over the courtyard.

“I’m pleased they came to that recognition,” he murmured, stroking my neck.

I looked up and noticed the twinkle in his eye. Among the wisest of beings, the Dalai Lama could see things that most others couldn’t—although he often kept his observations to himself. But there were times, like right now, when it felt like he was letting me in on a secret. Sharing a path, the direction of which had long been self-evident to him. Others had to be nudged along the way.

“I wanted to suggest the same thing,” he confirmed as I purred my appreciation. “But sometimes it is better for people to reach a conclusion for themselves.”

So that’s why he had asked Oliver to help Tenzin with the census! It had been less a request for a helping hand than a way of getting the two men to work together and to arrive at a solution already obvious to him. “Skillful means” is a practice much admired in Buddhism, and I was delighted not only by how skillful the Dalai Lama had been but also that he was entrusting me with his confidences.

I rolled over, stretching my arms and legs as far as they would go, muscles quivering. I offered His Holiness the luxuriantly fluffy arc of my tummy.

“Oh, little Snow Lion!” He chortled, rubbing his hand up my tummy. “You know I like this.”