Travel: The Tao of Meow

My two children and I made a quick jaunt from Vietnam to Laos, the "land of a million elephants," to commune with nature and lower our pulse after navigating the hectic streets of Hanoi.

Laos is a serene mountainous land crisscrossed by waterways, framed by the Mekong River to the west and the Annamite Mountains to the east. Our jungle lodge eschewed television and lacked the outlet required to recharge iPods. Perhaps in this idyllic setting, I thought, I can engage in some spiritual contemplation, achieve a Buddhist insight or two.

Each evening we retired early, wrapping mosquito netting around our beds. Geckos and birds sang us to sleep. Each morning we were awakened by a tangerine sun scaling chartreuse mountains, and I discovered the moths that had committed midnight hara-kari in the bathtub. It is nature; there are bugs. My 11-year-old daughter, Asha, hates bugs, particularly spiders.

My son Aidan, 12, surveyed the land with sweeping gestures, occasionally waxing poetic. An aspiring naturalist, he was first to steer our elephant by sitting on its enormous head, his legs fanned by giant flapping ears. He was first on the 8-mile trek through the land of the Khmu minority people.

He warned his sister of upcoming spider webs, while simultaneously lecturing her on their harmlessness. He sprinted to the Kuangsi Waterfall, enjoying a dip in the icy waters.

Back at the lodge, he scampered up the path to meet the baby elephant. Along this path our soft-spoken guide, Phat, pointed to an animal lover's gold mine, better than spiders or elephants or geckos: the caretaker's miao with six new nooj miao.

The cats' home was a dusty porch, crowded with motorbikes, their wheels encrusted with the dirt of unpaved roads, and a filthy doormat, once meant to prevent the dust from entering the house, but now a stiff and useless relic of best efforts. The kittens crowded around their father, a camouflage-colored feral cat turned homebody. The mother was off hunting. In minutes, the children's laps were piled with nooj miaos of questionable hygiene.

•••

Phat reminded me that cats are considered lucky here. Asian tales abound with cats ushering their impoverished masters to fortune. Hong Kong shops are lined with Garfield-shaped characters waving mechanically. A Chinese folktale relates how the cat, originally barred from heaven for its arrogance, gained heavenly access and favor from the Buddha. As a result of this status, cats are everywhere: in shops, restaurants, temples and homes.

But my affection for these furry deities waned as they encroached on my vacation agenda. No one wanted to visit the baby elephant again -- he cannot, after all, fall asleep in a lap. No one wanted to explore the lodge gardens or paddle a long-tail boat down the Khan River or take copious notes about flora and fauna. No one wanted to leave the lodge to tour Luang Prabang. And spiritual contemplation?

"Who wants to see a bunch of temples?" Aidan whined. "Let's stay here. These cats are like family now."

A cat connoisseur myself, I have enabled my family to become stupidly besotted with every cat they meet. But there are limits. Luang Prabang is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, with 33 temples and almost 1,000 monks. We were going to town.

"Wash your hands," I replied.

•••

The battle for enculturation continued in the city. The children snapped pictures of seven-headed dragons and three-headed elephants at the former Royal Palace. They politely removed their shoes to enter the Wat, a Buddhist temple, reverently kneeling in front of the Buddha. They dutifully trudged the 328 steps to the summit of Mount Phousi for a panoramic view of the city. But they only sprang to life when they saw a cat.

At Wat Chom Si, on top of Mount Phousi, a tortoise-shelled female lazed in the doorway. Near the gold-spired stupa, a monument whose graceful lines and symmetry are meant to represent the enlightened mind of the Buddha, a black cat rolled onto his back when Asha petted it. At the cart peddling offerings for Buddha -- fresh fruit, incense and flowers -- plus refreshments, two kittens were immediately scooped up.

At a small Buddha grotto, Phat knelt and offered a prayer. After graduating from high school, as a gift to his parents, Phat became a monk for three months. He had not seriously considered a monastic life and his time as a monk did nothing to convert him.

•••

We emerged from the grotto and tramped down the path to town. En route, we passed the dwellings where novices and monks sweep the stone floor, shaking dusty mats and preparing for prayers. Observing this activity were two temple kittens. But, in fact, only one was watching. The other was clearly ill, her eyes clamped shut with mucus, her nose encrusted.

"Don't touch her," I warned the kids.

Without objection, they moved away. She was scrawny with sparse gray fur and a plaintive cry. She stood in the path of oncoming pedestrians, and wobbled as if her illness has distorted her balance. Clearly, no one should have touched that cat.

Without a thought, I sat on the dirty stone path and scooped the pitiful creature into my lap. I poured water into my hand and began cleaning her eyes. She squirmed in protest, while I methodically massaged her eyes with water. It was tedious, messy work, taking more time than expected. A slit opened -- more mucus -- and I splashed her yet again with water. She calmed in my grasp, apparently sensing my intentions. When her eyes opened fully, she purred loudly and looked directly at me. Returned to steady ground, she skipped confidently toward the monks' house, undoubtedly her home, as well.

As I walked toward my children, I no longer saw their disinterest in the temples, their dusty clothes or the dirt on their hands. I saw only the softness of their hearts.