Free The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring by David Michie Page B

a darker companion—guilt. We know that compared to many others, our lives are actually quite comfortable. We don’t live in a war zone or in abject poverty; we don’t have to dwell in the shadows on account of our gender or religious opinions. We’re free to eat, dress, live, and walk however we like, thank you very much. But even so, we’re bored beyond measure.
    In my own case, if I can claim mitigating circumstances, the Dalai Lama had been away for some days. There was none of the usual bustle of activity and no visits from Mrs. Trinci, lavish with both food and affection. Most of all, there was none of the reassuring energy and love I felt simply by being in His Holiness’s presence.
    And so, I set out for the café one morning heavy of heart and slow of paw. My customary dawdling was even more dawdling than usual; just moving my rear legs felt like a Herculean effort. Why was I even doing this? I asked myself. Delicious though lunch might be, eating it would take me all of five minutes, and then it would be a long wait until dinner.
    Little did I realize how events were about to shake me from my lethargy.
    It all began with Sam behaving in an unusually urgent manner, leaping off his stool in the bookstore and hurrying down the steps to the café.
    “Serena!” He stage-whispered to catch her attention. “It’s Franc!” He gestured behind him to his computer screen. Franc was in the habit of Skyping for business updates, but his calls were always on Monday morning at 10 A.M. when the café was quiet, not in the early afternoon when activity was near its peak.
    Serena hurried over to the bookstore counter. Sam turned up the speakers and opened a screen revealing Franc in a living room. There were several people behind him sitting on a sofa and in armchairs. His expression was strained.
    “My father died last night,” Franc announced without preamble. “I wanted to tell you before you heard from anyone else.”
    Serena and Sam offered sympathy and condolences.
    “Even though it was inevitable, it’s still a shock,” he said.
    A woman got up from the sofa behind Franc and came toward the screen. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without him!” she wailed.
    “This is my sister, Beryle,” said Franc.
    “We all loved him so much,” sobbed Beryle. “Losing him is so hard!”
    Murmurs of agreement came from behind them.
    “It was good that I could be here for him at the end,” Franc said, seeking to regain control of the conversation. Even though his relationship with his father had been difficult, his return home had come at the insistence of his feisty lama, Geshe Wangpo. One of the senior most lamas at Namgyal Monastery, Geshe Wangpo was uncompromising on the importance of actions over words and others over self.
    “I’m glad that Geshe Wangpo persuaded me,” Franc continued. “My father and I were able to resolve …”
    “We’re having a big funeral,” interrupted an elderly, disembodied man’s voice from behind Franc.
    “ Very big funeral,” chimed in someone else, evidently impressed with the scale of it.
    “Over two hundred people are coming to say goodbye,” added Beryle, looming up in the screen again. “That’s the main thing right now, isn’t it? We all need closure, all of us.”
    “Closure,” chorused the group behind her.
    “Dad wanted something very simple at the crematorium,” said Franc.
    Beryle was having none of it. “Funerals are for those of us left behind,” she declared. “We’re a Catholic family. Well”—she looked pointedly at Franc—“most of us are.”
    “None of that sky-burial stuff,” pronounced the same scratchy male voice from behind.
    Franc was shaking his head. “I’ve never suggested …”
    “That’s what you Buddhists believe in, isn’t it?” said a wizened, white-haired figure, eyes red and teeth missing, who was homing in on the computer. “Chop people into little pieces and feed them to the vultures? No,