The Dalai Lama's Cat by David Michie Page B

unexpected performance.”

     
    Late that afternoon, Tenzin was briefing the Dalai Lama on the day’s events as the two of them enjoyed their green tea, accompanied on this occasion by wafer-thin biscotti baked by the ever-bountiful Mrs. Trinci. Having discussed most of the day’s activities, His Holiness turned to the tree-planting ceremony.
    “How did the breakfast go? I hope the visitors were happy with the outcome.”
    “It went very well, Your Holiness. And our guest phoned me just a short while ago to say how thrilled she is with the awareness being created.”
    “There were a lot of media crews this morning,” observed the Dalai Lama. “I have never seen so many television cameras at Jokhang!”
    “The event was well covered by the media,” said Tenzin. “But the real booster is a YouTube video that instantly went viral. Apparently, it already has more than ten million hits.”
    “For a tree-planting ceremony?” His Holiness raised his eyebrows.
    “It begins with that. But the real star of the show”—Tenzin turned to look in my direction—“is our little Rinpoche.”
    The Dalai Lama burst out laughing. Then, making an effort to contain himself, he said, “Perhaps we should not laugh. I am not sure who got more of a surprise, our Rinpoche or the journalists.”
    Coming over to where I was sitting, he scooped me up in his arms and stroked me slowly. “This morning when we all woke up, none of us guessed you were about to become—how do you say?—an international sensation. But you have created more awareness of the problem facing forests in a single morning than some people create in a whole lifetime.”
    I began to purr.
    “Most interesting karma.”

C HAPTER S IX
     
    Fur balls. There are few things more unpleasant, don’t you agree, dear reader?
    Oh, come, come. There’s no need to play the innocent with me! Just because you’re human doesn’t make you immune to self-obsession. Is it not the case that from time to time you experience excessive concern about how you come across to other beings? That you obsess about your clothing, footwear, adornments, and grooming, all of which have rather more to do with an image you wish to project to the world than matters of simple practicality?
    When talking about yourself, that subtle aside about the fancy brand of merchandise recently acquired, the romantic attention you are receiving, or the extraordinary yoga position you are now capable of assuming—is it not the case that such remarks are also intended to conjure up a particular impression you wish to create about yourself?
    And who, pray tell, occupies the majority of your thoughts from the moment you wake up till the time you go to sleep? Who, exactly, is the cause of your greatest anxiety and stress? Can you think of a certain party—perhaps not so far from the space you currently occupy—who at some time has become so caught up in a downward spiral of self-obsession that despite all their frenetic licking, scratching, and grooming, despite all their crazed efforts to feel better about themselves, all they have succeeded in doing is ingesting such large quantities of self-regarding detritus that they have made themselves sick—quite literally, perhaps?
    If an uncomfortable lump is forming in your throat simply from reading these few paragraphs, then you most certainly understand the vexation of fur balls. If not, you are clearly a better adjusted being than most, in which case I apologize for impugning your character. You certainly have no need to read this chapter, so may I suggest you proceed immediately to the next?
    Having been torn away from my mother and family at an early age, there are certain aspects of cat behavior of which I was wholly ignorant. Which was why my first fur-ball experience was as unexpected as it was unpleasant. One of the burdens of being a sumptuously beautiful cat of the kind that occasionally graces the boxes of the most expensive Belgian pralines is that