The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow by David Michie Page A

at Tenzin. “Do you usually . . . ?”
    â€œShe hasn’t joined us in the past.” Standing, Tenzin pushed aside letterhead marked with the heraldic crest of Kensington Palace to make space for a saucer from the tea tray. “First time for everything.”
    â€œA very polite meow,” observed Oliver, sipping his tea.
    â€œRinpoche is a darling cat,” said Serena, leaning forward to stroke me.
    â€œRinpoche?” Oliver’s eyes sparkled. “I thought she was HHC?”
    â€œOh,” Tenzin said, chuckling, “she is a cat of many names. His Holiness calls her Snow Lion. That’s his personal term of endearment.”
    â€œTo my mother, she is the Most Beautiful Creature That Ever Lived. And at the Downward Dog School of Yoga, she is revered as Swami,” Serena added.
    â€œSwami?” Tenzin reacted with surprise. “I didn’t know that one.”
    I could tell the direction his thoughts were taking by his tone of voice and shot him a glance. There was, dear reader, another very different name that had been bestowed on me during my earliest days at Namgyal. It wasn’t one I approved of, and it had been given to me in this very office by the Dalai Lama’s driver—a rough sort of fellow. It was one of those nicknames that captures your behavior at its very worst, to everyone’s amusement but your own.
    Understanding my glance, Tenzin fixed his features into his diplomat’s poker face. “Swami . . . ,” he repeated. “She’s been called worse.”
    â€œWe usually bestow different names on those whom we love,” observed Oliver. I looked over at him, taking in the eyes sparkling behind the spectacles, the aura of niceness about him. Oliver and I were going to get along well, I decided.
    â€œThink of the Dalai Lama,” said Oliver. “When he was reinstated on the lion throne in the Potala Palace, he was given many names. The Lotus Thunderbolt. Great Precious Prince of the Soft Voice. Mighty in Speech. Excellent of Knowledge. Absolute in Wisdom. The One Without Equal. Powerful Ruler of Three Worlds. Of course, most of us know him simply as the Presence.”
    â€œKundun.” Tenzin used the Tibetan word.
    â€œPerhaps the most apt,” said Serena. “When you’re with him, sometimes even when you’re not with him—”
    â€œYou feel it.” Oliver met her eyes with a warm understanding in his own.
    â€œI’m so pleased you’ve come to Namgyal,” Serena said as she reached out spontaneously to squeeze his hand. “You probably don’t know this, but I was good friends with your predecessor, Lobsang.”
    â€œActually, I did know.” Oliver put down his cup and pushed back his chair. “And I’m glad you mentioned it. I found something the other day I thought you may like to have.”
    After he left the office, Tenzin and Serena exchanged a few words about how very special His Holiness’s new translator was and how wonderfully he fitted in. After lapping the very last drops of milk from the saucer, I sat up, raising my front left paw and beginning to lick it in preparation for a post-prandial face wash.
    When Oliver returned he was holding a small, square Kodachrome photograph, which he gave Serena. As soon as she saw it, her face lit up.
    â€œOh my goodness! Where did you find this?” she exclaimed.
    â€œI was clearing out some bookshelves and it fell out from somewhere.”
    â€œI don’t even remember . . .”
    Tenzin was peeking over her shoulder. I paused my face-washing momentarily. The photograph was of Lobsang and Serena as teenagers in the kitchen downstairs. Both were wearing aprons and chopping vegetables, no doubt in preparation for a VIP lunch.
    â€œAll those years ago.” Serena’s voice was soft. “Dear Lobsang. I so hope he is well.”
    â€œI’m quite sure he is,” Oliver assured her.