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

neatly at the ankles. His face was ageless and radiant, and he had a gray moustache and goatee—the classic features of an oriental sage. His lightness of spirit, hinted at in the warmth of his brown eyes, was never far from the surface.
    I felt delight the moment I saw him—not, of course, that I showed it. We cats are far too soigné and sophisticated for that. Instead, I walked over to a gatepost and sniffed at it tentatively before ambling over to his bench and, still not directly acknowledging him, rubbed myself against its wooden legs.
    Knowing better than to try to coax me, Yogi Tarchin simply sat with his hand dangling down from the bench seat. After a decent period elapsed I made my way over to where he was sitting, as though I happened to be heading in that direction anyway. I rubbed up against his hand. He lifted me gently onto his lap, where I quickly settled. His fingernails massaged my forehead just how I liked it, and I purred loudly.
    â€œBeautiful day, isn’t it?” murmured Yogi Tarchin. “Much better to be here and now, on a perfect afternoon in the courtyard, than lost in cognition.”
    What he said was so true. Simply being on his lap, I felt quite naturally brought into the present. Away from remembering the unpleasant episode at the café. Looking through the deep green branches of the cedar, I noticed the sky—clear and azure—and the ever-present Himalayas in the distance, their ice-capped peaks gleaming in the sunlight.
    The here and now. What contentment it held! Why spoil it by thinking?
    In recent weeks I had become a more regular meditator. Even though I continued to be troubled by mental fleas, sometimes they seemed less aggressive in their activity. While remaining aware of them, I was able to keep my attention on my breath. On such fleeting occasions, they seemed to disappear. Sitting on Yogi Tarchin’s lap, I was barely troubled by them at all.
    I’m not sure how long I had been sitting there, absorbed in the present, when I was jolted into thought by none other than Serena. She was walking down toward the Himalaya Book Café on the other side of the street, arms crossed and with an intense expression on her face. In recent months I had often seen her walking in just the same way, wearing the same face. I wondered where she’d been.
    She glanced over into the courtyard. Seeing the two of us sitting together, her expression instantly changed. As did her direction. She crossed the street, came through the gates, and approached where we sat, palms folded at her heart.
    â€œRinpoche!” she greeted Yogi Tarchin with a smile, bowing slightly. Then, sitting on the bench next to us, she said, “Other Rinpoche!” to me.
    â€œWe’ve both been waiting for you,” said Yogi Tarchin with a chuckle. Like many of the things said by enlightened masters, it was sometimes hard to tell whether he was being playful or serious. Having never seen him in the courtyard before, let alone sitting on this bench, it seemed more than simple coincidence. I felt sure he was here for a reason.
    â€œYou are busy,” he said, nodding in the direction from which she’d come.
    Serena’s face clouded. She glanced away from him for a few moments before seeming to decide that there was no point pretending.
    â€œOh, Rinpoche!” she said, her eyes revealing her inner turbulence. “I know I often treat you like a therapist, but I don’t know what to do!”
    Yogi Tarchin reached out and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “This is why I’m here,” he said before reaching down to stroke me. I felt included in what he’d just said. In the warmth of that late afternoon, I wondered what was about to unfold. Yogi Tarchin’s advice was always insightful.
    â€œIs it your maharajah friend?” His voice was soft.
    She nodded.
    â€œIn so many ways everything between us is . . . just perfect,” she managed after a