The Dalai Lama's Cat by David Michie

for a place of maximum comfort.
    It was calm and quiet under the forest canopy as I sat meditatively. The early morning air—crisp, pine-scented—was bright with the mellifluous chorus of dawn birds. In the distance, I could hear a voice—the actress’s?—making an announcement, followed by a smattering of applause.
    And then it happened. The banner, and all my privacy, suddenly fell away. A moment of planned drama designed to reveal the full scale of the reforestation project instead was focused on me.
    Don’t get me wrong. We cats are not prudish. But nor do we like to make an exhibition of ourselves—especially not in front of the assembled world media.
    For a moment the only sound was the clicking and whirring of cameras. Then a ripple of laughter passed through the gathering. His Holiness was one of the first to chuckle. Then the actress said something about the soil now being well fertilized.
    My only concern, however, was to get away as fast as possible. I descended the earth mound even faster than I’d climbed it and scrambled into the undergrowth. Without pausing, I rushed back toward the temple and across the courtyard to the safety of home.
    I had discovered a way of gaining access to the quarters I shared with the Dalai Lama that didn’t involve waiting for anyone to open a door. Slipping into the ground-floor laundry, I hopped up onto a shelf and then walked along a ledge to a window that opened into the dining room. There, exhausted by the early morning exertions, I curled up in a large armchair and fell asleep.

     
    I was awakened by the delicious aroma of grilled steak, prepared in the way that just one person could possibly cook it. Only when I lifted my head did I become aware that the dining room was now occupied. The Dalai Lama had returned to other duties, but he had left the actress and several members of the reforestation entourage in the care of Tenzin and Lobsang, the translator, and the translator’s assistant. They were now sitting around the table eating a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs, while Mrs. Trinci fussed over them, offering extra servings of fried mushrooms, onion rings, and French toast. Seeing me stir, she soon returned with a small, white china dish on which she had thoughtfully arranged several bite-size portions of steak. She placed it on the floor beside me.
    As we all attacked our breakfast with gusto, the conversation at the table moved from the tree-planting ceremony to the reforestation campaign and the actress’s busy calendar for the rest of the year. Then, after a pause, she mused, “I had the most interesting conversation with His Holiness earlier about karma. It’s not a subject we know much about in the West.”
    Tenzin had been following the actress ever since his days as a student at Oxford, and he relished the opportunity to talk to her. “Yes, that has always struck me as a little strange. The law of cause and effect is the assumed basis of all Western technology. Nothing is causeless; everything occurs as the result of something else. But as soon as one ventures beyond the immediate, material realm, Westerners talk about luck, fate, or divine intervention.”
    The group digested this in silence. “I suppose,” continued Tenzin, “the difficulty is that karma is not instantly apparent. It can take time for causes to yield effects. Because of this, it may seem that there is no relationship between cause and effect.”
    “Yes,” agreed the actress. “His Holiness was saying that whatever wealth or success one enjoys in the present moment arises from previous generosity, not from hard work, or taking risks, or pursuing opportunities that are conditions rather than causes.”
    “True,” agreed Tenzin. “For karma to ripen, you need both—both the causes and the conditions.”
    “It’s no secret among our little group here”—the actress gestured to her fellow campaigners—“that a curious thing happened the year I made a significant