The Dalai Lama's Cat (4 page)
Chogyal put me back on the carpet.
“What about just ‘Mouser’ for an ordination name?” suggested the driver. But because of his strong, Tibetan accent, it sounded like “Mousie.”
All three men were now looking at me intently. The conversation had taken a dangerous turn that I have regretted ever since.
“You can’t have just ‘Mousie,’” said Chogyal. “It has to be Something Mousie or Mousie Something.”
“Mousie Monster?” contributed Tenzin.
“Mousie Slayer?” suggested Chogyal.
There was a pause before the driver came out with it. “What about Mousie-Tung?” he suggested.
All three men burst out laughing as they looked down at my small, fluffy form.
Tenzin turned mock-serious as he regarded me directly. “Compassion is all very well. But do you think His Holiness should be sharing his quarters with Mousie-Tung?”
“Or leaving Mousie-Tung in charge for three weeks when he visits Australia?” mused Chogyal, as the three collapsed in laughter again.
Getting up, I stalked from the room, ears pressed back firmly and tail slashing.
In the hours that followed, as I sat in the tranquil sunlight of His Holiness’s window, I began to realize the enormity of what I’d done. For almost all my young life I had been listening to the Dalai Lama point out that the lives of all sentient beings are as important to them as our own life is to us. But how much attention had I paid to that on the one and only occasion I was out in the world?
As for the truth that all beings wish to be happy and to avoid suffering—that thought hadn’t crossed my mind while I was stalking the mouse. I had simply let instinct take over. Not for one moment had I considered my actions from the
mouse’s
point of view.
I was beginning to realize that just because an idea is simple, it isn’t necessarily easy to follow. Purring in agreement with high-sounding principles meant nothing unless I actually
lived
by them.
I wondered if His Holiness would be told my new “ordination name”—the grim reminder of the greatest folly of my young life. Would he be so horrified when he heard what I’d done that he would banish me from this beautiful haven forever?
Fortunately for me, the mouse recovered. And when His Holiness returned, he was immediately caught up in a series of meetings.
It wasn’t until late in the evening that he mentioned the subject. He had been sitting up in bed reading before closing his book, removing his glasses, and placing them on the bedside table.
“They told me what happened,” he murmured, reaching over to where I was dozing nearby. “Sometimes our instinct, our negative conditioning, can be overpowering. Later we regret very much what we have done. But that is no reason to give up on yourself—the buddhas, they have not given up on you. Instead, learn from your mistake and move on. Like that.”
He turned out the bedside light, and as we both lay there in the darkness, I purred gently in appreciation.
“Tomorrow we start again,” he said.
The next day, His Holiness was going through the few pieces of mail his executive assistants had selected for his attention from the sackfuls that arrived every morning.
Holding up a letter and a book sent by the history professor from England, he turned to Chogyal. “This is very nice.”
“Yes, Your Holiness,” Chogyal agreed, studying the glossy cover of the book.
“I am not thinking about the book,” said His Holiness, “but the letter.”
“Oh?”
“After reflecting on our conversation, the professor says he has stopped using snail bait on his roses. Instead, he now releases the snails over the garden wall.”
“Very good!” said Chogyal with a smile.
The Dalai Lama looked directly at me. “We liked meeting him, didn’t we?” I remembered that at the time, I had thought how deeply unenlightened the professor seemed. But after what I’d done yesterday, I was hardly one to judge.
“It shows that we all have the ability to change, doesn’t it, Mousie?”
Even though cats spend most of the day dozing comfortably, we like our humans to keep busy. Not in a noisy or intrusive way—just active enough to entertain us during those periods when we choose to remain awake. Why else do you think most cats have a favorite theater seat—a preferred spot on a windowsill, porch, gatepost, or cupboard top? Don't you realize, dear reader, that you are our entertainment?
One of the reasons why it’s so congenial living at Jokhang, as the Dalai Lama’s temple complex is known, is for exactly this reason: there is always something going on.
Before 5
A.M.
each morning, the temple complex comes alive with the sound of sandaled feet on the pavement as the monks from Namgyal Monastery converge for their morning meditations. By this time, His Holiness and I have been meditating for two hours, but as I become aware of the stirring outside, I like to get up, stretch my front legs luxuriantly in front of me, and perhaps take a few limbering-up scratches of the carpet, before heading over to my usual position on the windowsill. From there I watch the reassuring circadian performance begin to be reenacted, for in monastic life, almost every day is the same.
It begins with golden squares flickering to life across the horizon, as lamps are lit in the temple and the monks’ quarters. In the summer, the early morning breeze carries clouds of purple incense—along with dawn chants—through the open window, just as the sky begins to light up in the east.
By the time the monks emerge from the temple at nine in the morning, His Holiness and I have both eaten breakfast, and he is already at his desk. Morning briefings with his advisers follow, and down in the temple, the monks return for a well-ordered daily routine that includes reciting texts, attending teachings, debating points of philosophy in the courtyard, and meditating. These activities are interrupted only by two meals and come to an end around 10 o’clock at night.
After that, the younger monks are expected to return home and memorize texts until midnight. More is demanded of the older ones, who frequently study and debate until one or two in the morning. The period in the middle of the night when there is no activity at all lasts only a few hours.
Center stage in His Holiness’s suite, meantime, there is a constant procession of visitors: world-famous politicians, celebrities, and philanthropists, as well as those who are less well known but sometimes more intriguing, such as the Nechung Oracle, whom His Holiness sometimes consults. A medium between the material world and spiritual realms, the Nechung Oracle is the State Oracle of Tibet. He warned of difficulties with China as early as 1947 and continues to help with important decisions, going into an induced trance state, sometimes as part of an elaborate ceremony during which he offers prophecies and advice.
You would think that finding myself in such a stimulating and comfortable environment would make me the happiest cat that ever played the cello, as we cats refer to that most delicate part of our grooming regimen when we attend to our nether regions. But alas, dear reader, in those early months living with the Dalai Lama, you would be wrong.
Perhaps it was because I had, until so recently, only ever known what it was like to be one of a litter of four. Maybe it was an absence of contact with any other sentient being blessed with fur and whiskers. Whatever the reason, I not only felt very alone but also came to believe that my happiness would be complete only with the presence of another cat.
The Dalai Lama knew this. Taking care of me from that first moment in the car with the utmost tenderness and compassion, he nurtured me through those early weeks, constantly attentive to my well-being.
Which was why, one day soon after the mouse incident, when I was loitering in the passage, feeling lost and uncertain of what to do, he caught sight of me on his way to the temple and turning to Chogyal, who was accompanying him, said, “Perhaps little Snow Lion would like to come with us?”
Snow Lion
?! I loved the name. As he picked me up in his robed arms, I purred with approval. Snow lions are celestial animals in Tibet, representing unconditional happiness. They are animals of great beauty, vibrancy, and delight.
“We have a big day ahead,” His Holiness told me as we went downstairs. “First a visit to the temple to watch the examinations. Then Mrs. Trinci is coming to prepare lunch for today’s visitor. And you like Mrs. Trinci, don’t you?”
Like
was hardly the word. I
adored
Mrs. Trinci, or to be more specific, Mrs. Trinci’s diced chicken liver—a dish she made especially for my delectation.
Whenever catering was required for a special occasion or visiting dignitary, Mrs. Trinci was called in. More than 20 years earlier, someone in the Dalai Lama’s office, while planning a banquet for a high-powered delegation from the Vatican, had discovered the Italian widow living locally. Mrs. Trinci’s culinary flair had quite effortlessly transcended all previous catering, and she was soon installed as the Dalai Lama’s favorite chef.
An elegant woman in her 50s, with a penchant for flamboyant dresses and extravagant costume jewelry, she would sweep into Jokhang on a wave of nervous excitement. Assuming instant control of the kitchen from the moment she arrived, she pulled everyone present, not just the kitchen hands, into her vortex. On one of her earliest visits, she had ordered the abbot of Gyume Tantric College, who happened to be walking past, into the kitchen, where she immediately tied an apron around his neck and set him to dicing carrots.
Mrs. Trinci knew no protocol and brooked no dissent. Spiritual advancement was of little relevance with a banquet for eight to prepare. Her operatic temperament was the very opposite of the calm humility of most of the monks, but there was something about her vivacity, her intensity, her passion that they found utterly beguiling.
And they loved her generous heart. She always made sure that along with His Holiness’s meal, an appetizing stew was left on the stove for his staff, and apple strudel, chocolate gateau, or some other heavenly confection was left in the fridge.
The first time she saw me, she declared me to be The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived, and from that day on, no visit to the Dalai Lama’s kitchen was complete without her producing, from one of her many grocery bags, some succulent morsels brought especially for me. Placing me on a countertop, she would watch me closely, her amber, mascara-lashed eyes swooning as I noisily devoured a saucer of chicken pot-au-feu, turkey casserole, or filet mignon. I was contemplating exactly this prospect as Chogyal carried me across the courtyard toward the temple.
