The Dalai Lama's Cat Read Free

from Chogyal’s desk halfway across Tenzin’s, before the older man seized my small, fluffy form and put me down on the rug.
    “You’d better stay there,” he said. “I have a letter here from His Holiness to the Pope, and we don’t want paw prints all over it.”
    Chogyal laughed. “Signed on his behalf by His Holiness’s Cat.”
    “HHC,” Tenzin shot back. In official correspondence, His Holiness is frequently referred to as HHDL. “That can be her provisional title until we find a suitable name.”
    Beyond the executive assistants’ office was a corridor that led past more offices, toward a door that was kept carefully closed. I knew from talk in the executive assistants’ office that the door led to many places, including Downstairs, Outside, The Temple, and even Overseas. This was the door through which all His Holiness’s visitors came and went. It opened onto a whole new world. But in those early days, as a very small kitten, I was perfectly content to remain on this side of it.

     
    Having spent my first days on Earth in a back alley, I had little understanding of human life—and no idea how unusual my new circumstances were. When His Holiness got out of bed every morning at 3 A.M. to meditate for five hours, I would follow him and curl up in a tight knot beside him, basking in his warmth and energy. I thought that most people started each day in meditation.
    When visitors came to see His Holiness, I saw that they always presented him with a white scarf, or kata, which he then returned to them with a blessing. I assumed this was how humans usually greeted visitors. I was also aware that many people who visited His Holiness had traveled very long distances to do so; that, too, seemed perfectly normal to me.
    Then one day Chogyal picked me up in his arms and tickled my neck. “Are you wondering who all these people are?” he asked, following my gaze to the many framed photographs on the wall of the executive assistants’ office. Gesturing to a few of the photos, he said, “These are the past eight presidents of the United States, meeting His Holiness. He is a very special person, you know.”
    I did know, because he always made sure my milk was warm—but not too hot—before giving it to me.
    “He is one of the world’s greatest spiritual leaders,” Chogyal continued. “We believe he is a living Buddha. You must have a very close karmic connection to him. It would be most interesting to know what that is.”
    A few days later, I found my way down the corridor to the small kitchen and sitting area where some of the Dalai Lama’s staff went to relax, have their lunch, or make tea. Several monks were sitting on a sofa, watching a recorded news item on His Holiness’s recent visit to the U.S. By now they all knew who I was—in fact, I had become the office mascot. Hopping up on the lap of one of the monks, I allowed him to stroke me as I watched TV.
    Initially, all I could see was a huge crowd of people with a tiny red dot in the center, while His Holiness’s voice could be heard quite clearly. But as the news clip progressed, I realized that the red dot was His Holiness, in the center of a vast indoor sports arena. It was a scene that was replayed in every city he visited, from New York to San Francisco. The newscaster commented that the huge crowds of people who came out to see him in every city showed that he was more popular than many rock stars.
    Little by little, I began to realize just how extraordinary the Dalai Lama was, and how highly regarded. And perhaps because of Chogyal’s comment about our “very close karmic connection,” at some stage I started to believe that I must be rather special, too. After all, I was the one His Holiness had rescued from the gutters of New Delhi. Had he recognized in me a kindred spirit—a sentient being on the same spiritual wavelength as he?
    When I heard His Holiness tell visitors about the importance of loving kindness, I would purr contentedly,