The Dalai Lama’s Cat and the Power of Meow is the third book in the series by David Michie about Snow Lion, aka HHC (His Holiness’s Cat),aka The Dalai Lama’s cat. All of the books deal with “the inner life of a cat, ” and this one asks the question: ” Are cats capable of mindfulness?” It is HHC’s desire to think less, experience more mindfulness which translates in cat language as, The Power of Meow. Power is a cat’s “…journey to discover her own true nature…and experience joy [in] the here and now.”
An interesting event that happens in this book is that HCC meets with The Pope’s beloved dog over the internet when the Dalia Lama and the Pope leave a video chat, failing to turn off their computers.
The novel is set in the “enchanting and exotic world of the Dalia Lama’s monastery in the Himalayas.” As the reader follows HCC’s internal, spiritual journey, he/she learns to slow down and appreciate mindfulness and find inner peace. We can even identify when HCC tries to meditate and “be in the moment” and is tormented by “mental fleas.” Those of us who have tried meditation and are bombarded by inane thoughts that prevent us from achieving mindfulness are well acquainted with these “mental fleas.”
The overall feeling of reading this fun (and sometimes funny) novel is one of calm, peacefulness, and optimism that we, too, might achieve what the Dalai’s cat seeks.
We adopted our first cat in 1968, when we moved to a small town in Texas, the first time we lived in a rent house rather than an apartment in Houston, where we were not allowed to have pets. When Christmas came, we put up a table top tree, which lasted a full twenty minutes before Prissy climbed it and brought it down. This Christmas I am remembering the many cats we’ve had. One of the most outstanding was a black male we named Captain Midnight. This is a piece I wrote about him and share this morning with cat lovers everywhere.
He sits on the ottoman opposite my easy chair waiting for me to lower the newspaper so that he can hop into my lap. His once sleek black hair is sprinkled with grey. I read once that when a cat’s skin is scratched badly, the hair follicle is scarred, and the replacing hair grows in white. Captain Midnight has been neutered many years ago, but he still scraps with intruders who foray into his yard. “Someone” has removed what would be his eyebrow, for a dime sized circle of white scalp shines above his right eye. He has the pointed muzzle of a Siamese rather than the flattened face that would indicate Persian blood, and the slight kink of his tail reflects his Siamese heritage. He is pure alley cat, a Tom, and the biggest baby of our three cats.
Eight years ago, some junior high students rescued him from the busy traffic outside our school, and we put him into the glass-walled-enclosed courtyard until “someone” could take him home. I slipped away at lunchtime to play with him, and when I gathered him up, he nuzzled the fleshy part of my ring finger and began to “nurse.” I was hooked.
At first, I thought since it was so close to Halloween, I would name him Count Dracula, but I couldn’t see myself going to the door and calling, “Here, Dracula; come here Drac.” When my husband came up with the original name of Midnight, I hated to veto it, but I wanted something a bit more creative. We looked at each other and intoned in the voice of the fifties TV announcer, “Cap…tain…Midnight!”
Even now, my husband will enter the room and see me with 15 pounds of tomcat sprawled across my lap, smacking away, nursing on my finger for security. “Be a man, Cap; be a man,” he chides. Captain’s only reply is “Smack…slurp…sma-ck.”
This year (2019) finds me with 50 years of teaching “under my belt.” I have taught all levels from pre-K “(library lady” or “book lady”–volunteer) to juniors, seniors, and graduate students enrolled in my Advanced Writing class at the university where I have just completed 30 years. My first paying teaching job was junior high, and I spent 13 years with ages 12-13, the “difficult years.” I had some of the “funnest” experiences with this age group. When I was no longer the “young, fun teacher,” I taught in an elementary school setting before sixth graders went on to junior high, teaching language arts blocs, an assignment that was a “dream-fit” for me. After completing graduate school in my 40s, I went on to community college, then university teaching. Just as teaching is “in my blood,” so is a passion for reading, writing, libraries, and everything bookish. This blog will be open to anyone who loves books, promotes literacy and wants to “come out and play.” View all posts by Rae Longest Monday
The second book in a series about the Dali Lama’s Cat
I read this book on my Kindle, and I found that I am enjoying reading electronically almost as much as handling a physical book. That’s progress for me! HCC, His Holiness’s Cat, aka Snow Lion contemplates the question, “What makes cats purr?” As a matter of fact, she meditates on purring, an act of joy, contentment and satisfaction through the whole book. Interestingly enough, there are many reasons cats purr, and HCC enlightens us with anecdotes for all the different ones. As she instructs us, we get to explore Buddhism’s views on happiness.
Told from the cat’s point of view, the story examines the deep-down happiness seen more in cats than in other animals. Michie, through his intriguing plot and developing characters warns us, the readers, about the “perils of self-obsession.” Besides the setting of the Dali Lama’s palace, the author creates The Himalaya Book Cafe, where HCC spends a great deal of her time when the Dali Lama is away and where she discovers a Karmic connection in this second book.
As one critic says, the book is filled with “wisdom, warmth, and a touch of mischief.”
BEING BIIG CAT LOVERS, MY BETTER HALF AND I BOTH ENJOYED THIS BOOK
You don’t have to be a cat lover to love this book, but it helps. Nick has two cats, Verne and Stevenson. Verne takes to reading right away, loves being read to and reading himself. Stevenson, on the other hand, is a “reluctant reader,” enjoying nothing that involves reading. Nick discovers a hidden talent Stevenson has, however, which turns the reading lessons upside down.
This is a delightful picture book, one I bought for my great grand niece.
We adopted our first cat in 1968, when we moved to a small town in Texas, the first time we lived in a rent house rather than an apartment in Houston, where we were not allowed to have pets. When Christmas came, we put up a table top tree, which lasted a full twenty minutes before Prissy climbed it and brought it down. This Christmas I am remembering the many cats we’ve had. One of the most outstanding was a black male we named Captain Midnight. This is a piece I wrote about him and share this morning with cat lovers everywhere.
He sits on the ottoman opposite my easy chair waiting for me to lower the newspaper so that he can hop into my lap. His once sleek black hair is sprinkled with grey. I read once that when a cat’s skin is scratched badly, the hair follicle is scarred, and the replacing hair grows in white. Captain Midnight has been neutered many years ago, but he still scraps with intruders who foray into his yard. “Someone” has removed what would be his eyebrow, for a dime sized circle of white scalp shines above his right eye. He has the pointed muzzle of a Siamese rather than the flattened face that would indicate Persian blood, and the slight kink of his tail reflects his Siamese heritage. He is pure alley cat, a Tom, and the biggest baby of our three cats.
Eight years ago, some junior high students rescued him from the busy traffic outside our school, and we put him into the glass-walled-enclosed courtyard until “someone” could take him home. I slipped away at lunchtime to play with him, and when I gathered him up, he nuzzled the fleshy part of my ring finger and began to “nurse.” I was hooked.
At first, I thought since it was so close to Halloween, I would name him Count Dracula, but I couldn’t see myself going to the door and calling, “Here, Dracula; come here Drac.” When my husband came up with the original name of Midnight, I hated to veto it, but I wanted something a bit more creative. We looked at each other and intoned in the voice of the fifties TV announcer, “Cap…tain…Midnight!”
Even now, my husband will enter the room and see me with 15 pounds of tomcat sprawled across my lap, smacking away, nursing on my finger for security. “Be a man, Cap; be a man,” he chides. Captain’s only reply is “Smack…slurp…sma-ck.”
powerfulwomenreaders 