The Dalai Lama's Cat

by David Michie

  “I went home and told everyone I needed a break. I stopped going into work. I grew a beard. I spent lots of time at home just reading and looking after the garden. My wife, Bree, didn’t like that. She still wanted to spend weekends with celebrities, and party and appear in the social pages. At first, she thought I was having a midlife crisis. Then things got acrimonious. Our relationship grew worse and worse, until she said she wanted a divorce. That was three months ago. Right now, I’m so confused I don’t know what to do.

  “And you know the worst part? I actually feel bad that I feel bad. Everyone out there believes that I’m living the dream. They imagine that my life is incredibly fulfilled and happy. I encouraged them to think that, because I really believed it was true. But I was wrong. It isn’t true. It never was.”

  The commanding authority had evaporated, the charisma had dissolved, leaving only this sad, crumpled man. It was impossible not to feel sorry for Jack. The difference between the persona he projected and the man being revealed could not have been greater. Seen from the outside, his wealth and fame and guru status might appear to equip him to deal with life’s problems far better than most. But if anything, the opposite now seemed true.

  His Holiness leaned forward in his seat. “I am sorry that what you are experiencing is so painful. But there is another way of looking at it. What you are going through now is very useful. Perhaps later you will see this as the best thing that has ever happened to you. Dissatisfaction with the material world is—what do you say?—vital to spiritual development.”

  The notion that his present unhappiness was somehow useful took Jack by surprise. But the Dalai Lama’s response also troubled him. “You’re not saying there’s something wrong with wealth, are you?”

  “Oh no,” said His Holiness. “Wealth is a form of power, an energy. It can be most beneficial when used for good purposes. But, as you see, it is not a true cause of happiness. Some of the happiest people I know have very little money.”

  “What about fulfilling our unique abilities?” Jack turned to another of his former beliefs. “Are you saying that’s not a cause of happiness either?”

  The Dalai Lama smiled. “We all have certain predispositions. Some particular strengths. Cultivating these abilities can be very helpful. But—same with money—what matters is not the abilities themselves but how we use them.”

  “What about romance and love?” By now, Jack was scraping the bottom of the barrel of his former creed, and his own skepticism showed.

  “You have a happy relationship with your wife for a long time?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  “And then”—His Holiness turned the palms of his hands upward—“change. Impermanence. It is the nature of all things, especially relationships. They are certainly not a true cause of happiness.”

  “When you say ‘true cause,’ what do you mean?”

  “A cause that can be relied upon. One that always works. Heat applied to water is a true cause of steam. No matter who applies the heat or how often the heat has been applied before or where in the world heat is applied, the result is always steam. In the case of money or status or relationships”—His Holiness chuckled—“we can easily see these are not true causes of happiness.”

  While the self-evident truth of what the Dalai Lama had just said confirmed Jack’s own experience, the simplicity and clarity with which he had said it seemed to startle our visitor. “To think that all these years I’ve been preaching the Gospel of Self-Development, but I’ve had it so wrong.”

  “You should not be too harsh on yourself,” said His Holiness. “If you help people lead more positive lives that benefit others as well as themselves, this is a good thing. Very good thing. The danger is that self-development can lead us to more self-cherishing, self-absorption, self-infatuation. And these are not true causes of happiness but the opposite.”

  Jack took a moment to process this before asking, “So, the true causes of happiness. Do we need to discover what these are for ourselves, or are there general principles? Must we turn our back on the material world?”

  He didn’t get any further before the Dalai Lama began laughing. “Oh, no!” he said. “Becoming a monk is not a true cause of happiness either!” Then, adopting a more serious expression, he continued, “We each need to find out our own personal methods of cultivating happiness, but there are general principles. Two main true causes of happiness: first, the wish to give happiness to others, which Buddhists define as love, and second, the wish to help free others from dissatisfaction or suffering, which we define as compassion.

  “The main shift, you see, is from placing self at the center of our thoughts to putting others there. It is—what do you say?—a paradox that the more we can focus our thoughts on the well-being of others, the happier we become. The first one to benefit is oneself. I call this being wisely selfish.”

  “An interesting philosophy,” mused Jack. “Wisely selfish.”

  “We should test these principles against our own experience to see if they are true,” His Holiness said. “For example, think of the times in your life when you experienced great contentment. Perhaps you find that your thoughts were on someone else. Then compare. Think about your times of greatest unhappiness, upset. Who were you thinking about then?”

  As his visitor was considering this, His Holiness continued, “Scientific research is most useful. MRI scans have been done on meditators while they’re focusing on different subjects. We expect the meditators to have greatest happiness when their minds are completely calm and relaxed. But the prefrontal cortex of the brain, the part linked to positive emotion, lights up when people meditate on the happiness of others. Therefore, the more ‘other-centric’ we are, the happier we can be.”

  Jack was nodding. “Self-Development takes us only so far. Then there needs to be Other Development.”

  The Dalai Lama brought his hands together with a smile. “Exactly.”

  Jack paused before saying, “Now I understand why you said that something useful can come from this experience.”

  “There is a story, a metaphor, that perhaps you may find useful,” said His Holiness. “A man arrives home to find a huge pile of sheep manure has been dumped on his front yard. He didn’t order the manure. He does not want it. But somehow, it is there, and his only choice now is to decide what to do with it. He can put it in his pockets and walk around all day complaining to everyone about what happened. But if he does this, people will start avoiding him after a while. More useful is if he spreads the manure on his garden.

  “We all face this same choice when dealing with problems. We don’t ask for them. We don’t want them. But the way we deal with them is what’s most important. If we are wise, the greatest problems can lead to the greatest insights.”

  Later that day, I was in my usual spot in the executive assistants’ office. Remembering Jack’s arrival that morning, I continued to be amazed by how powerfully he filled the room when he first stepped through the door—and how very different he seemed when he was telling the Dalai Lama how he really felt. The difference between appearance and reality could not have been more marked. I also reflected on His Holiness’s advice about how to deal with problems in life. They are never asked for, but how we deal with them defines our future happiness or unhappiness.

  Toward the end of that afternoon, the Dalai Lama’s driver appeared in the office. It was more than a week since he had last visited, and he immediately noticed the Lhasa apso, who lay curled up in his basket.

  “Who is this?” he asked Chogyal, who was tidying his desk in readiness to leave for the day.

  “Just someone we’re looking after until a home can be found for him.”

  “Another Tibetan refugee?” wisecracked the driver, leaning down to pat the dog.

  “Similar,” said Chogyal. “He belonged to neighbors of my cousin in Dharamsala. They had him only a few weeks, and my cousin kept hearing this yelping coming from their yard.

  “Then about a w
eek ago, my cousin heard the dog barking from inside the house at night. He went around and knocked on the door. No one answered, but the barking stopped. Next night, the same thing. He began to wonder what was going on. It seemed the neighbors weren’t taking good care of the dog.”

  The driver shook his head.

  “Two days later, my cousin happened to mention the dog to the neighbor across the road, who told him that the dog’s owners had moved out the weekend before. Cleared out, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “And abandoned the puppy?” asked the driver.

  Chogyal nodded. “My cousin went around immediately and broke into the house. He found Kyi Kyi lying at the end of a heavy chain in the kitchen, barely alive. It was a pitiful sight. No food or water. He took the dog home immediately and managed to get some water into him, then food. But my cousin couldn’t keep him, because he’s a single man and hardly ever at home. So”—Chogyal shrugged—“with nowhere else to go, he came to us.”

  It was the first time that I’d heard Kyi Kyi’s background, and I can’t pretend, dear reader, that I was unaffected by the tale. I remembered how jealous I’d been of Kyi Kyi when he first arrived, how resentful of the affection Chogyal showered on him and the food he gave him. But I also recalled how subdued the dog had been, and the poor condition of his coat. If I’d known the full story, I too would have felt sorry for him.

  “Seems like you’ve started an animal shelter,” remarked His Holiness’s driver. “How has Mousie-Tung taken to the new orphan?”

  My whiskers twitched irritably. His Holiness’s driver had always seemed a rough sort to me. Why did he insist on calling me by that dreadful name?

  “Oh, I think she is still making up her mind about him.” Chogyal glanced at me as he delivered his typically generous assessment.

  “Making up her mind?” Walking over to the cabinet, the driver reached out to stroke me. “In that case, she is a very wise cat. Most of us judge others only on appearances.”

  “And as we all know”—Chogyal clicked his attaché case shut—“appearances can be very deceptive.”

  The next morning when I visited the assistants’ office and saw Kyi Kyi in his basket, instead of ignoring him completely, I walked over and sniffed at him tentatively. Kyi Kyi reciprocated in kind, before cocking his head and taking a good, long look at me. Through this moment of communication we reached an understanding of sorts.

  I did not, however, climb into his basket and let him lick my face.

  I’m not that kind of cat. And this is not that kind of book. But I didn’t envy Kyi Kyi anymore. Chogyal could walk him and feed him and whisper sweet nothings to him as much as he liked, and it wouldn’t bother me a bit. I knew that behind this appearance was another reality. As I was discovering, even the most powerful first impressions could mask a very different truth.

  I also discovered that I felt a lot happier not being jealous. Envy and resentment were demanding emotions that had disturbed my own peace of mind. For my sake, too, there was little point in being consumed by unhappy and irrational feelings.

  It was less than six months later that a letter arrived for His Holiness on the impressive embossed stationery of the new Institute for Other Development established by Jack. After his visit to Jokhang, he had handed over management of his Self-Development company to a colleague and created a partner institute focusing on Other Development. The idea was to encourage as many people as possible to give their time, money, and social networking skills to worthy causes. Jack’s first instinct had been to nominate those worthy causes. But in the spirit of Other Development, he had decided to let others choose the organizations they wanted to support.

  Within just a few months, over 10,000 people had signed up as supporters, and over $3 million had been raised for a wide variety of charities operating around the world. The huge surge of support, said Jack, was thrilling, humbling, and life-affirming. He’d never felt happier or more fulfilled in his life.

  Would His Holiness consider attending the inaugural conference of the institute later in the year, perhaps with an address on the true causes of happiness?

  As Tenzin read Jack’s letter to Chogyal, there was unusual emotion in his voice. “Even though I’ve worked here for more than twenty years,” he said, “I still get surprised. When people allow the well-being of others to become their motivation, the results are simply …”

  “Immeasurable?” offered Chogyal.

  “Yes. Precisely.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Is it easy living as the anonymous companion to a global celebrity? Some people believe that the unknown companions of very famous individuals must feel constantly overlooked and undervalued, like the drab hens to glorious roosters. When the rooster gets all the attention with his lustrous plumage and magnificent dawn arpeggios, wouldn’t it be understandable if the hen sometimes yearned for her own time in the spotlight, too?

  In the case of this particular hen, no.

  Within my own small world of Jokhang, I am already as well known as it’s possible to be. At Café Franc I am venerated as a rinpoche! And while His Holiness may appear frequently on TV, he also has to go through life being photographed and having microphones thrust in his face morning, noon, and night. He must answer the relentless questions of journalists asking him to explain elementary Buddhism—much like a professor of applied physics being asked incessantly to recite the multiplication tables. That the Dalai Lama manages to do this with genuine warmth and a sense of humor reveals something not only about his personal qualities but also about the value of Buddhist practices—most notably, the perfection of patience!

  The reason I’m so categorical—if you’ll excuse the pun—about not wanting to be famous is that I’ve been on the receiving end of a great deal of media attention. This fact may surprise you. Why, you may wonder, have you not already come across the Dalai Lama’s cat in the pages of Vanity Fair, photographed perhaps by the great Patrick Demarchelier? Or preening her whiskers and folding her long, gray boots with studied insouciance, having invited Hello! magazine to survey the delights of her sumptuous Himalayan boudoir? It pains me to admit that the media attention I received wasn’t of the glossy magazine variety. Photographed? Yes. Celebrity pages? Alas, no.

  It began one spring morning when His Holiness rose from his meditation an hour earlier than usual and got ready to venture outside. Changes to his routine were not unheard of—he often had trips to take or ceremonies to preside over. But that morning, even though his two executive assistants had reported early for duty, there was no sign of his driver. I realized His Holiness could not be going far. Hearing the sound of chanting across the courtyard, I also realized that he wouldn’t be attending the usual morning proceedings at the temple. As the chief of protocol began checking security, parking, and other arrangements, it became clear we were expecting visitors. Who could they be?

  Cars began arriving and dropping off journalists and TV crews from a variety of international media outlets. They were ushered along a path that led from behind the temple into the forested area nearby. Next came news that the car carrying His Holiness’s visitor was approaching. His Holiness began making his way downstairs, followed by Tenzin and Chogyal, with Kyi Kyi on his leash trailing behind. Curious to discover what was happening, I tagged along.

  As I did, I overheard snippets of information about the visitor: “Free Tibet campaign”; “Order of the British Empire.” Her philanthropy was mentioned, as was the fact that she maintained a low-key lifestyle, dividing her time between homes in London and Scotland.

  Just as the Dalai Lama appeared outside, his visitor arrived. An elegant lady with blonde, shoulder-length hair and vivacious features, she was clad not in the kind of conservative or formal clothing most of His Holiness’s visitors wear but in a waxed outdoor jacket, khaki chinos, and brown hiking boots.

  You know me quite well enough by now, dear reader, to realize that I never divulge the identity of His Holiness’s visitors. Let’s just say that
this one was an absolutely fabulous English actress who has appeared in numerous television and stage productions and is a patron of several good causes.

  After the traditional greeting, the Dalai Lama and his visitor began to walk toward the forest. I followed in their footsteps, while at a discreet distance behind me the rest of the entourage brought up the rear.

  “I’m deeply grateful to you for lending your support to our cause,” the actress said.

  “The destruction of forests is a subject that should concern us all,” replied the Dalai Lama. “I am glad to help.”

  The English lady spoke about the importance of forests as the “green lungs” of the planet, essential for converting carbon dioxide into oxygen. Forests are being dramatically reduced in size each day to make way for maize and palm-oil plantations, she pointed out, leading to soil erosion and pollution of vital water supplies, as well as loss of biodiversity. Many species, like the orangutan, are now threatened, she explained, because there are so few places left for them to live.

  “Saving the forests is not only a question of money,” she said. “There also has to be awareness and education. We need to motivate as many people as possible to take action, or at the very least, to support the idea of reforestation. Because you are so well known and so widely supported, your support will help us get the message across.”

  Taking her hand in his own, His Holiness said, “Together, we can combine our activities for the best result. You have been very, very generous in supporting so much of this work personally. And your support of the Free Tibet campaign and other charities has been exemplary.”

  She shrugged modestly. “I just feel it is the right thing to do.”

  By now we were walking along a path in the forest. On either side of us, the ground was carpeted in primrose and mistletoe. Large rhododendron bushes blossomed in extravagant displays of pink and red.