The Dalai Lama's Cat

by David Michie

  And the more I observed, the more obvious it became: what was missing was mindfulness. Even though they were sitting a few hundred yards from the Dalai Lama’s headquarters, in the Tibetan Buddhist theme park that was Café Franc, rather than experiencing this unique place and moment, most of the time they were mentally far, far away.

  Moving between Jokhang and Café Franc more and more often, I began to see that up the hill, happiness was sought by cultivating inner qualities, beginning with mindfulness but also including such things as generosity, equanimity, and a good heart. Down the hill, happiness was sought from external things—restaurant food, stimulating holidays, and lightning-quick technology. There seemed to be no reason, however, that humans couldn’t have both: we cats knew that being mindful of delicious food was among the greatest happinesses imaginable!

  One day an interesting couple appeared at Café Franc. At first glance, they were quite ordinary-looking, middle-aged Americans in jeans and sweatshirts. They arrived during a midmorning lull, and Franc sashayed over to their table in his new black Emporio Armani jeans.

  “And how are we this morning?” he asked, in his standard opener.

  As Franc took their coffee orders, the man asked about the colored strings around his wrist, and Franc began the recitation with which I was now familiar: “They’re blessing strings, and you get them from a lama when you take special initiations. The red one was from the Kalachakra initiations I took from the Dalai Lama in two thousand eight. The blue ones are from vajrayana initiations in Boulder, San Francisco, and New York, in two thousand six, two thousand eight, and two thousand ten. I got the yellow ones at empowerments in Melbourne, Scotland, and Goa.”

  “Very interesting,” replied the man.

  “Oh, the Dharma is my life,” Franc announced, placing a theatrical hand over his heart, then nodding his head in my direction. “Have you seen our little friend? The Dalai Lama’s cat. In here all the time. Close karmic connection to His Holiness.” Then, leaning closer, he confided, as he did at least a dozen times a day, “We’re at the heart of Tibetan Buddhism here. The absolute epicenter!”

  Quite what the couple made of Franc was hard to tell. But what set them apart from other visitors was that when their coffee was placed in front of them, they stopped their conversation and actually tasted it. Not only the first mouthful but also the second, third, and subsequent mouthfuls. Like the monks at Jokhang, they were paying attention to the present moment deliberately. Relishing their coffee. Enjoying their surroundings. Experiencing pure presence.

  Which was why, when they resumed conversation, I eavesdropped with particular interest. What I heard should not have surprised me. The man, a researcher in mindfulness from America, was telling his wife about a article that had appeared in the Harvard Gazette.

  “They used a panel of more than two thousand people with smartphones and sent out questions at random intervals during the week. Always they were the same three questions: What are you doing? What are you thinking? How happy are you? What they found was that forty-seven percent of the time, people weren’t thinking about what they were doing.”

  His wife raised her eyebrows.

  “Personally, I think that number is a bit low,” he said. “Half the time, people aren’t focusing on what they’re doing. But the really interesting bit is the correlation with happiness. They found that people are much happier when they’re mindful of what they’re doing.”

  “Because they only pay attention to things they enjoy?” asked his wife.

  He shook his head. “That’s just it. Turns out that it’s not so much what you’re doing that makes you happy. It’s whether or not you’re being mindful of what you’re doing. The important thing is to be in the direct state, attending to the here and now. Not in the narrative state”—he spun his index finger beside his temple—“which means thinking about anything except what you’re actually doing.”

  “That’s what Buddhists have always said,” agreed his wife.

  Her husband nodded. “Only sometimes these concepts get lost in translation. You come across people like the maître d’ here, who wears Buddhism like a badge. For them it’s an extension of their ego, a way to present themselves as different or special. They seem to think it’s all about the external trappings, when in fact the only thing that really matters is inner transformation.”

  A few weeks later, I was enjoying a post-luncheon doze on the top shelf when I awoke to a face that was as deeply familiar as it was completely out of context. Tenzin was standing in the middle of Café Franc, looking directly at me.

  “You’ve noticed our beautiful visitor?” Franc glanced over at me.

  “Oh yes. Very pretty.” In his tailored suit, the ambassadorial Tenzin gave away nothing.

  “The Dalai Lama’s cat.”

  “Really?”

  “Comes in here all the time.”

  “Amazing!” The usual carbolic tang of Tenzin’s fingers intermingled with a potent dose of Kouros as he reached up to scratch my chin.

  “She has a very close karmic connection to His Holiness,” Franc told His Holiness’s right-hand man.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Tenzin mused, before posing a question that Franc had not yet considered. “I wonder if she is missed by His Holiness’s household when she comes visiting?”

  “I doubt it very much,” Franc returned smoothly. “But if they found her here, they’d soon realize how well she’s looked after.”

  “That is a nice cushion.”

  “Not just the cushion, dear. It’s lunch that she enjoys.”

  “Hungry, is she?”

  “Loves her food. Adores her food.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t get enough food at Jokhang?” Tenzin suggested.

  “I’m sure it’s not that. It’s just that Rinpoche has particular tastes.”

  “Rinpoche?” Tenzin wore a droll expression.

  “That’s her name.” Franc had said it so many times now that he had actually come to believe it. “And you can see why, can’t you?”

  “As the Dharma tells us”—Tenzin’s reply was cryptic—“everything depends on mind.”

  Back at home several afternoons later, Tenzin sat opposite His Holiness in the familiar office. It was something of a ritual at the end of the working day—Tenzin updating His Holiness on any matter of importance and the two of them talking about what needed to be done, while enjoying freshly brewed cups of green tea.

  I was on my usual windowsill, watching the sun slip below the horizon and only half-listening to their discussion, which ranged, as usual, from global geopolitics to the finer points of esoteric Buddhist philosophy.

  “Oh, Your Holiness, turning to more important matters”—Tenzin closed the United Nations file in front of him—“I’m pleased to tell you that I’ve solved the mystery of HHC’s eating disorder.”

  A glint appeared in the Dalai Lama’s eyes as he responded to Tenzin’s expression. “Please”— he leaned back in his chair—“go on.”

  “It seems that our little Snow Lion isn’t losing her appetite after all. Instead, she’s been taking herself down the road to the brasserie run by our designer-Buddhist friend.”

  “Brasserie?”

  “Just down the road,” he gestured. “With the red-and-yellow umbrellas outside.”

  “Oh, yes. I know the place.” His Holiness nodded. “I hear they have very good food. I’m surprised she hasn’t moved there!”

  “As it happens, the owner is very much a dog lover.”

  “He is?”

  “He has some special breed.”

  “But he also feeds our little one?”

  “Reveres her because he knows she lives with you.”

  His Holiness chuckled.

  “Not only that, he’s given her the name Rinpoche.”

  “Rinpoche?” It was too much for the Dalai Lama, who burst out laughing.

  “Yes,” said Tenzin as they both turned to look at me. “Funny name to call a cat.”r />
  A late afternoon breeze brought the scent of Himalayan pine through the open window.

  His Holiness’s expression was thoughtful. “But perhaps not such a bad name if she has helped the restaurant owner develop more equanimity for dogs and cats. For him, therefore, she is precious.”

  Rising from his chair, he came over to stroke me. “You know, Tenzin, sometimes if I am working at my desk for a long time, our little Snow Lion will come and rub against my legs. Sometimes,” he chortled, “she will even bite my ankles until I stop what I’m doing. She wants me to pick her up and say hello and spend a few moments being together, just the two of us.

  “For me,” he continued, “she is a beautiful reminder to be in this moment, here and now. What could be more precious? So I suppose”—he looked at me with that oceanic love—“she is my Rinpoche, too.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was an overcast and unpromising day when I ventured out of the Dalai Lama’s office into that of his executive assistants. It so happened that both Chogyal and Tenzin were away from their desks, but the office wasn’t completely unattended.

  There, curled up in a wicker basket by the radiator, was a Lhasa apso.

  For those unfamiliar with the breed, Lhasa apsos are small, long-haired dogs who, in the past, helped to guard the monasteries of Tibet. They have a special place in the affections of Tibetans—sometimes from my sill I watch visitors down below circumambulating the temple with their Lhasa apsos, an auspicious ritual believed to help achieve higher rebirth. But discovering one so close to my own inner sanctum came as a most unwelcome surprise.

  Dozing in its basket as I entered the room, the dog raised its nose and sniffed the air before deciding to play it safe and bury its furry head back in its basket. For my part, I walked past without so much as acknowledging its existence, hopping up onto Chogyal’s desk and from there to my favorite viewing platform on top of the wooden filing cabinet.

  Moments later, Chogyal returned. Leaning down, he patted the small dog and talked to him in the familiar and endearing tone of voice I’d always thought he reserved for me. As my hackles rose, the betrayal only deepened. Oblivious to my presence, Chogyal spent quite some time stroking and caressing the beast—which looked a very scrawny specimen—reassuring it of its good looks, its delightful temperament, and the special care he was going to give it. The very same sentiments he usually whispered in my ear—and which I’d always imagined were sincere and heartfelt. Listening to him repeat those words to this dull-eyed, lank-haired interloper made me realize that far from being exclusive, they were just stock phrases he repeated to any creature with four legs and a furry face.

  So much for our special relationship!

  Chogyal resumed his place at the desk, tapping away on his keyboard, not realizing that I was sitting only yards away and had seen everything. When Tenzin arrived about 20 minutes later, he too acknowledged the dog by name—Kyi Kyi, pronounced with a long “i,” as in “kite”—before sitting at his own desk.

  I found it hard to believe that they both could sit there reading and replying to e-mails as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Matters only got worse when the Dalai Lama’s translator arrived with a newly completed manuscript under his arm. Lobsang was tall, slender, and youthful, and tranquility seemed to ooze from his every pore. I had believed myself to be a favorite of his, but he too bent to stroke the new arrival before crossing to greet me.

  “And how is our little Snow Lion today?” He began tickling under my chin before I seized his fingers in the steel-vise-grip of my teeth.

  “I didn’t realize she’d met our special guest,” Chogyal said, looking up at me with his usual smile, as if I were supposed to be as pleased as he was.

  “Not necessarily her special guest,” observed Tenzin. Turning to look directly at me, he added, “But hopefully you can find a place in your heart for Kyi Kyi.”

  Eyes darkening with displeasure, I released Lobsang’s hand and descended to the desk, then the floor, and stalked out of the room, ears pressed back. The Dalai Lama’s three staffers seemed not to notice.

  At lunchtime, I observed Chogyal taking the dog for a walk. It trotted obediently beside him as they circumambulated the temple, and there was much stopping and petting by admiring Tibetans as they came and went from the temple complex.

  In the kitchen, Chogyal fed us both at the regular time. But it was hard to avoid comparing the huge mound of food heaped on Kyi Kyi’s plate with my customarily modest portion. Or the fact that Chogyal stayed to watch over the dog as it wolfed down its meal, making a great fuss over it and giving it a rewarding pat afterward, while leaving me to my own devices.

  When we bumped into His Holiness in the corridor later, he too crouched down to say hello to the dog. “So this is Kyi Kyi?” he confirmed, patting the dog with much more warmth than I would have liked. “Beautiful markings! Such a handsome little chap!”

  They were all making such a big deal you’d have thought they’d never seen a Lhasa apso before! And despite the chatter, none of my questions were being answered—like, what was the dog doing here? And how long would it stay?

  It was my ardent hope that the Dalai Lama wasn’t planning to adopt it. There wasn’t room in this relationship for the three of us.

  But the next day when I ventured out, Kyi Kyi was there again in his basket.

  And the day after that.

  This was why another, rather more high-powered visitor that week came as a welcome distraction.

  The whole of McLeod Ganj knew that someone special was arriving when a huge, black Range Rover rolled ponderously up the hill toward Jokhang. Locals and tourists alike stared at the high-polished, expensive, and expansive apparition, so out of keeping with the town that it might have materialized from a different planet. Exactly who was behind those dark-tinted windows? What did you have to do to be conveyed about with such extravagant secrecy?

  One question that didn’t need to be asked, however, was who the visitor had come to see. And sure enough, the Range Rover eventually made its slow way through the gates toward the home of Rinpoche, the Bodhicatva, the Snow Lion of Jokhang, The Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived—and her human companion.

  I recognized the visitor from the moment he stepped into His Holiness’s room. He was, after all, one of the most famous and longest-established self-development gurus in the world. His face was emblazoned on the covers of millions of books and DVDs. He had toured world capitals, speaking to huge crowds in the cities’ largest venues. He had a personal following among the Hollywood in-crowd, he had met with U.S. presidents, and he appeared regularly on every major TV talk show.

  However, my deep sense of discretion prevents me from telling you who he was—no, really, especially in light of the combustible revelations he was about to make, which he certainly didn’t intend for a wider audience. The moment he stepped through the door, his presence was commanding. It was as if the very fact that he was there obliged you to look at him.

  Of course, the Dalai Lama has a powerful presence, too—but of an altogether different nature. In His Holiness’s case, it’s not so much a personal presence as an encounter with Goodness. From the time you are first with him, you become absorbed in a state of being in which all your normal thoughts and concerns fade into irrelevance, and you become aware, in a curious way reminded, that your own essential nature is one of boundless love and that this being the case, all is well.

  Our guest—let’s just call him Jack—strode into the room, presented His Holiness with a scarf in the traditional way, and was soon sitting beside him in the wingback chair reserved for visitors. These were the very same actions performed by most visitors, but the way Jack did them made them seem somehow more potent, as though his every word, every gesture, was imbued with significance. Their conversation began with the usual pleasantries, then Jack gave His Holiness a copy of his latest book. As he told the Dalai Lama about his world tour a year earlier, he was mesmerizing. As h
e described a movie in which he had recently appeared, it was easy to imagine Jack’s on-screen charisma.

  But after ten minutes, conversation gave way to silence. His Holiness sat in his chair, relaxed, attentive, a gentle smile on his face. It seemed that for all of Jack’s powerful self-assurance, he was finding it hard to get to the point of why he had come here. Eventually he started to speak again—but as he did, something extraordinary started to unfold.

  “Your Holiness, as you may know, I have been working as a life coach for more than twenty years. I’ve helped millions of people around the world find their passions, realize their dreams, and lead lives of success and abundance.” The words came to him with effortless familiarity, but as he spoke, something about him was changing. Something I found hard to identify.

  “I’ve helped people find fulfillment in every aspect of their lives, not just material.” Jack continued. “I’ve motivated them to develop their unique talents and abilities. To create successful relationships.”

  With every sentence, he seemed to be losing some of his polish. He was shrinking, almost physically, into his chair.

  “I have created the largest self-development company in America, possibly in the world.” He said it almost as an admission of failure. “In the process, I’ve become a very successful and wealthy man.”

  This last sentence had the greatest impact of all. In giving voice to the accomplishment of all that he had set out to achieve, he also seemed to be confessing just how poorly it had served him. He leaned forward, shoulders rounded and elbows on his knees. He looked broken. When he gazed up at His Holiness, it was with an imploring expression.

  “But it isn’t working for me.”

  His Holiness regarded him sympathetically.

  “On our last world tour, I was making a quarter of a million dollars every single night. We’d packed the biggest indoor venues across America. But I’d never felt so hollow. Motivating people to be wealthy and successful and in great relationships suddenly seemed so senseless. It may have been my dream once, but not anymore.