The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring

by David Michie

“What I’m trying to work out,” mused Sukie, “is how the Maharajah knew about the fire.”

  “Perhaps someone phoned him,” suggested Ewing.

  “He’s said to be very community minded,” someone added.

  “I’ve heard that, too,” agreed Serena. “And he often seems to walk down this street in the evening. Maybe he saw the fire himself.”

  “Whatever the case, I’m not sure how I can possibly thank him for saving my house,” said Ludo.

  “He didn’t want to stay for a glass of wine?” asked Merrilee in her smoker’s voice, refreshing her own glass.

  “He probably doesn’t drink,” said Sid. “And he’s very private. Doesn’t like a fuss.”

  “I’ll have to arrange a personal meeting to thank him,” proposed Ludo.

  “Much better,” agreed Sid. “But I think you are forgetting the real hero of the evening, without whom the fire would have done so much more damage before anyone even knew what was happening.”

  There was a pause before they all turned to look at me.

  “Swami!”

  “You are right,” Ludo said, rising from his chair and coming over to where I was sitting next to Serena. He seemed to prostrate as he knelt on the rug in front of me.

  “I don’t think I will ever forget the sound you made,” he said, stroking me appreciatively.

  “Spine-chilling,” remarked Merrilee with a shudder.

  “Gave me goose bumps,” said Sukie.

  “You wonder how they know,” mused Carlos, adjusting his trademark bandanna.

  “Oh, I think cats know more than we give them credit for,” said Ludo. “A lot more than we even recognize ourselves.”

  It was a moment before Serena said, “As we were discussing at the café earlier.”

  Ludo, Sid, and several others nodded in agreement.

  For the benefit of those who hadn’t been at lunch, Serena repeated what the eminent biologist had said about the consciousness of animals. “He told us that animals have the ability to perceive certain things imperceptible to humans.”

  Apparently, we are sentient in ways that most people never for a moment stop to consider.

  “I once heard about a pet pig,” said Ewing, “who woke up his owners by pulling off their bedcovers one night. The house was on fire, and they were sleeping through it. They reckon the pig saved their lives.”

  “Just like Swami helped save the studio and my home,” observed Ludo.

  “Do you think it was the scent of the fire she noticed?” asked a yogi called Jordan.

  “Scent?”

  “Or she could have seen smoke,” suggested someone.

  “Sixth sense,” said Carlos, offering a more flattering explanation.

  I remembered the huge rat that had appeared from nowhere and my shock at seeing it, followed by the involuntary yowl its appearance had provoked.

  “She certainly knew how to warn us!” said Merrilee.

  Ludo looked at me with an expression of profound gratitude. “For that, Swami will always be a guest of honor at our studio.”

  It was only later, as we were leaving and people were in the hallway putting on their shoes, that Merrilee noticed Serena’s scarf.

  “You were lucky,” she said, taking the edge of it between her thumb and forefinger. “You normally leave this—”

  “—on the balcony,” Serena finished. “It would have gone up in smoke.”

  “But not tonight?”

  “That’s the weird thing,” Serena said. “I could have sworn I put it outside. But apparently it was here, beside my bag, all along.”

  “You don’t think … ?” Merrilee started to say.

  “Here she is!” interjected Sid, stroking my face with his smooth fingertips as Serena held onto me. “A very special being.”

  What was it that made me feel so close to this tall Indian man with the sparkling eyes? “The one,” he continued, “who knows much but says little.”

  I looked up at Sid, recollecting the rat on the scarf. If I knew much but said little, what could be said of him?

  Later that evening I curled up on the yak blanket that His Holiness kept on his bed for my exclusive use. As I hovered in that gentle, drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep, images from last night’s dream and this evening’s fire flashed through my mind, and I thought about what the biologist had said about the sentience of animals. It occurred to me that one of the most obvious but overlooked facts about happiness is that all of us sem chens—humans, felines, even rats—are equal in our wish to attain it. If each of us has been some other kind of sem chen in a previous life, and might be again in the future, then the happiness of all living beings, whatever the species, is our only worthy goal.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Exploring the art of purring had taken more intriguing twists than I could ever have imagined. But despite the wisdom I had gained in the past few weeks, there was still, dear reader, a very basic question about happiness that troubled me: why could I be contentedly padding along, minding my own business, when for no reason at all a sense of disgruntlement would come over me? A productive morning of meditation, grooming, and cello-recital—as we cats refer to that most intimate part of our grooming routine—could inexplicably turn bleak and gray. An afternoon down at the Himalaya Book Café that began with the wonderfully promising arrival of a plate of poached sea trout could draw to a sluggish and querulous close. Nothing in particular might have happened to cause this change of feeling. Had I been shooed off a windowsill, had my tail tugged by a spiteful child, or been prodded from a catnap for an enforced photo opportunity—such is the price of fame—my peevishness would be perfectly understandable.

  But I hadn’t. So it isn’t.

  The wisdom I’d received sitting on the lap of the Dalai Lama had made me much more aware of what went on in my mind and much less prone to these invisible ups and downs. Even so, there could be no denying that warm, good feelings could subtly give way to a darker mood. And so it was when one morning, without any effort on my part, the truth was revealed in all its perfect obviousness.

  It started when Tenzin came over to where I was sprawled across the top of the filing cabinet.

  “You may be interested to know, HHC, that your favorite person in the world is coming in this morning.”

  The Dalai Lama? By my reckoning he was exactly nine sleeps away, not counting catnaps.

  “In a couple of weeks, His Holiness will be back among us,” Tenzin continued. “From the moment he gets back he has a very busy schedule. Lots of guests to cater for. Which is why our VIP chef is coming to take stock. She wants everything shipshape ahead of his arrival.”

  Mrs. Trinci was coming! The queen of Jokhang’s kitchen and my generous benefactor!

  As Tenzin stroked my cheek I seized his forefinger between my teeth, holding it for a few moments before licking away the trace of carbolic.

  Tenzin chuckled. “Oh, little Snow Lion, you’re too funny. But Mrs. Trinci isn’t cooking anything today, so don’t go to the kitchen expecting any treats.”

  I met his cautionary expression with my most imperious blue gaze. For a seasoned diplomat, Tenzin could be remarkably obtuse. Did he seriously think that Mrs. Trinci could resist me, especially after such a long absence? A single look of blue-eyed tenderness was all it would take. Perhaps a beseeching curl of the tail around her leg. At the very most, a pleading meow, and Jokhang’s VIP chef would be warming up a treat for my delectation faster than you could say “diced chicken liver.”

  With a spring in my admittedly erratic step, I was soon on my way downstairs.

  I arrived in the kitchen to find Mrs. Trinci in her familiar apron, holding a clipboard and pen, calling out a list of items while Lobsang and Serena replied from the refrigeration room and pantry, respectively.

  “Ten pints of natural Greek yogurt?”

  “Yes,” answered Lobsang.

  “When do they expire?”

  “End of next month.”

  �
��All of them?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes.”

  “Pitted prunes? There should be four large tins.”

  “Only three,” responded Serena.

  “Oh, porca miseria!—bloody hell! Now I remember. One of the tins rusted through. We had to throw it out.”

  Seeing some movement out the corner of her eye, she turned to see me wobbling toward her.

  “Dolce Mio!” In an instant her tone changed to such effusive adoration that even I found it hard to believe I was the cause of it.

  “How is my little bella, my little beauty?” She swept me off my paws, showered me with kisses, and placed me on a counter. “I have missed you so much! Have you missed me?”

  As she ran her bejeweled fingers through my thick coat, I purred appreciatively. This was a wonderfully familiar prelude to what was sure to be an even more delightfully rewarding experience.

  “Are we finished in here?” Lobsang called out from the walk-in refrigerator.

  “For the moment,” Mrs. Trinci replied distractedly. “Tea break!”

  Swooping into her tote bag, she took out a sealed plastic bowl and removed the lid. “I kept the tiniest soupçon of last night’s goulash for you,” she told me. “I warmed it up before coming. I hope it meets the standards of your rarefied palate.”

  Mrs. Trinci’s Hungarian goulash was as deliciously succulent and its gravy as whisker-tinglingly sublime as any food could be.

  “Oh, tesorino, my little treasure!” she exclaimed, studying me closely through her mascara-lashed amber eyes as I bent to devour the goulash with noisy delight. “You are truly,” she pronounced breathlessly, “the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived.”

  A short while later, Mrs. Trinci, Serena, and Lobsang were sitting on stools at the kitchen counter, sipping mugs of tea and munching on coconut slice that Mrs. Trinci had brought with her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Trinci,” Lobsang said, holding up the piece he was eating and smiling broadly. “Very good of you to remember.” Her coconut slice had been a favorite of his since childhood.

  They all chuckled.

  “Just like old times,” said Serena.

  “Ah, yes.” Mrs. Trinci sighed happily. “When was the last time the three of us worked together here—twelve years ago?”

  After a pause, Lobsang said, “I think fourteen.”

  “Who would have thought that my two kitchen hands would do so well for themselves, eh? The Dalai Lama’s translator. A high-flying chef from Europe. Everything changes.”

  “Impermanence,” agreed Lobsang.

  “Well, not everything has changed,” said Serena. “We’re all a bit older; we’ve seen a bit of the world. But we’re still the same people. Especially the way we feel about important things.” She gazed at Lobsang. “That hasn’t changed.”

  Lobsang stared into mid space contemplatively for a few moments before replying. “True. I still think your mother’s coconut slice is the best of all confectionary.”

  As they laughed, he met Serena’s eyes with a twinkle. “For example.”

  “For example,” she repeated.

  “I suppose that’s why it’s so difficult”—his expression suddenly became serious—“to change direction once you have set yourself on a particular course.” The aura of tranquility that usually emanated from Lobsang had been replaced by uncertainty.

  Mrs. Trinci gave Serena a meaningful glance. The two of them had evidently discussed whatever Lobsang was referring to. Unable to bear the change that had come over him, Mrs. Trinci got off her seat, walked over to him, and with a clash of bracelets, put her arms around him.

  “Of course, this is a difficult time for you, my dear Lobsang,” she said. “But you must know that whatever decision you come to, you will have my full support!”

  Only a short while later, there was a polite knock on the kitchen door, then Lama Tsering stepped inside. Tall, thin, and with the most ascetic of faces, Lama Tsering was the disciplinarian of Namgyal Monastery—the one responsible for overseeing the behavior of the monks at temple services and as they were engaged in other practices. As soon as he appeared, Lobsang got off his stool, put down his mug, and brought his palms together at his heart.

  Lama Tsering bowed deeply. “Good morning to you.”

  “Good morning, Lama.” Mrs. Trinci seemed flustered by his presence.

  “Tenzin told me you were here today,” he said, meeting her eyes with an earnest expression. “I have come to ask, most sincerely, for your advice.”

  “My advice?” Mrs. Trinci squeaked, smiling nervously.

  “On matters of nutrition,” he continued.

  “Mama Mia! I thought I had done something wrong!”

  Lama Tsering tilted his head and with the tiniest hint of humor about his mouth said, “Why would you think that?”

  Mrs. Trinci shook her head vigorously before passing him the tray of coconut slice. “Have a piece,” she offered. “Cup of tea?”

  Lama Tsering studied the tray with interest. “It looks very nice,” he observed. “But first I need to know something.” Retrieving a small notebook from the pocket of his robe, he flicked it open to a page on which he had taken notes. “Is this”—he consulted his writing—“low Glycemic Index? Low GI?”

  “Pretty low,” she assured him.

  “Mum!” Serena rebuked her as Lama Tsering helped himself to a piece.

  Mrs. Trinci shrugged. “Everything’s relative.”

  Lama Tsering took an appreciative bite before observing, “Perhaps moderately low, then?”

  “To extremely high,” suggested Serena, before all of them, even Lama Tsering, burst out laughing.

  “Why the interest in GI?” Mrs. Trinci asked the lama after a moment.

  “As disciplinarian at the monastery,” he replied, “it is my duty to ensure that all the monks are practicing well, are exercising self-control, and, above all, are content.” He patted his heart. “But I have only recently discovered how important nutrition is to this.”

  “A balanced diet,” offered Serena.

  “Glucose, in particular,” Lama Tsering said with such authority that it was evident he had done his homework—just as it was evident to Lama Tsering that we had never given one moment’s thought to the subject.

  “Our monks need two things to enjoy fulfillment and success: intelligence and self-control. Of these two, there is no known method to increase intelligence. But self-control—willpower—this is something different. Even in the West, scientists are discovering the importance of emotional intelligence.”

  Lobsang nodded. He was very well acquainted with the work of Daniel Goleman, who had spent much time with His Holiness and whose books on emotional intelligence and social intelligence were known worldwide.

  “The marshmallow experiment at Stanford University,” Lobsang said.

  “A highly effective predictor of success,” confirmed Lama Tsering. Then glancing at the looks of puzzlement on the faces of Mrs. Trinci and Serena, he went on. “In the 1960s, young children were shown into a room, one at a time, and researchers made a deal with them. Each child was given a marshmallow and told that they could eat it right away if they liked, but if they waited for the researchers to return after stepping out for a bit, they could have an additional marshmallow. The researchers left the room for fifteen minutes. Some children ate the sweet immediately. Others were able to restrain themselves and ended up with two marshmallows.

  “Those children who had more self-control when they were young went on to achieve higher grades, have fewer problems with drink or drugs, and earn more money. Scientists are showing that self-control is a better indicator of future success than even intelligence.”

  “Oh dear,” murmured Mrs. Trinci. “I would have eaten the marshmallow straight away!”

  Lama Tsering ignored the interjection. “The same thing has been observed over many years with our monks. It is not always the most intelligent who attain realization. It is those who are
willing to apply themselves.”

  “But how does glucose affect this?” asked Serena.

  “I have learned recently that one of the main factors affecting willpower is how much glucose we have in our system,” Lama Tsering said. “Low levels of glucose lead to less self-regulation, less ability to control thoughts, emotions, impulses, and behavior. When it is a long time since they have eaten, most people feel stressed and can’t think as clearly.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard something about this,” Lobsang said, animated by a recollection. “A study about whether or not prisoners would be granted parole.”

  Mrs. Trinci and Serena looked at him with interest. “In the end,” Lobsang told them, “it had nothing to do with what crime the prisoners had committed, or their behavior in jail, or their race, or any other variable you might suspect. It had to do with the time of day they appeared before the parole board and how tired or hungry the board members were. The sooner it was after breakfast or lunch, the more likely prisoners were to be granted parole. But as the morning or afternoon wore on, members of the parole board grew increasingly tired and hungry and were more likely to deny parole.”

  “That’s a very good example,” Lama Tsering said, making a note of it. “And I think we have all experienced this. When we are tired and hungry everything becomes a big effort.”

  “Which is exactly why we are enjoying our coconut slice,” chimed in Mrs. Trinci. “And why I always make sure His Holiness’s little Snow Lion never suffers from …” She trailed off, searching for the right term.

  “Decision-fatigue?” suggested Lobsang.

  As long as my belly was full of goulash, he could make as many jokes at my expense as he liked, I thought, licking the last vestiges of rich gravy from the bowl.

  “So, Mrs. Trinci,” Lama Tsering said, waving a sheaf of papers in his right hand. “I have with me here the official menu from the monastery kitchens. I wonder if you can advise how it might be improved.”

  “To make the meals lower GI?” she asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “You need to go for the slow burn,” she said, reaching for the papers. “Nuts, vegetables, raw fruits, cheese, oils, and other good fats. Foods that lead to better blood sugar balance.” Scanning the list, she started shaking her head. “White rice? White bread? Every day? Oh, no, this is too much!”