Everybody Wants to Be a Cat.

It’s official – I’m a Lusaka city girl now. The adjustment from my cozy cottage life, where I could spend full days reading and struggled to go through a dollar a week, to my new urban one was interesting to say the least. I now have an 8 to 5 job that I adore, a three-bedroom flat that I share with my best friend, a commute and monthly expenses, a much more frequently accessed wallet and a rapidly expanding closet.

Zambia remains a source of both great joy and frustration for me, and this contradictory nature does nothing to dim my love for it. Four months into my third year and I know I could have made no other decision besides this.

My work at a non-profit committed to behavior change around HIV/AIDS is challenging and my position often sends me on the road to one of our ten field sites throughout the country. I’ve been given responsibilities that I wouldn’t get near within a few years of work at a comparable US organization and am glad to finally be working concretely on the epidemic in this country.

But to truly give you a picture of my new life, I’m recruiting the help of someone who has an intimate view of it. Yes, that’s right, my orange tom cat, Dorcus.

As a last aside before I switch narrators and officially tick off the “crazy cat lady” box on my census form, let me note that Dorcus (in puppet form) has made two previous appearances as a Brittany-life ethnographer. This is his first venture into the blogosphere...

It’s 5:30 in the morning and I sit about a foot from a sleeping Brittany’s face, focusing on making my green eyes wide for when her green ones open. For while, when we first moved here and I was going through my difficult transition phase as she likes to say, I would simply bite her hair until she woke up and fed me. I quickly realized that that method yielded more aerial journeys across the room than feedings though and stopped.

Lusaka is chilly now and Brittany isn’t quite visible under the colorful spread of her duvet. She had hand-stitched the patchwork pieces of chitenge during lazy village afternoons and long school meetings and the hours spent waiting for transport on many a Zambian road. It is a relic of a once unpredictable existence and that too contributed much to keeping her warm.

By 5:45, the force of my glare has woken her up. It’s a gift. I run figure 8’s around her ankles, crying and nipping if the situation seems urgent. Town life has rounded out my already healthy village tummy, and if I want to maintain my new physique, it’s crucial that I am fed promptly. Brittany, of course, doesn’t share in my prioritizing and will dawdle in the bathroom or by heating the kettle for tea.

Within the hour, I’m comfortably full of kibble and have returned to napping on a freshly made-up bed, and she’s out the door to work. From what I gather, she spends her days writing training guides and personal stories of change, meeting with various other peoples and buying us groceries at the mall a few minutes from her office. It seems to require a lot of energy.

Meanwhile, back at the flat, I live the lap of luxury lifestyle I prefer. I test all the beds, couches and patches of sunlight for optimal napping quality. I roll around in the little backyard garden. I add to my repertoire of things guaranteed to annoy Jen, Brittany’s roommate. I occasionally deign to show myself to the little gang of children living next door, who think I am quite handsome and narrate my every movement like ESPN announcers. I take frequent snack breaks. All this is quite exhausting and I wouldn’t want my blood sugar to drop.


By 18 hours, Brittany is back. Despite all my feline training to remain nonchalant, I rush to the door, making sure my white booties and chest are especially glowing. After all, this is the person who feeds and houses me, who brought me from the village to my rightful place in the big city, and it pays to show some gratitude. Besides, I need to work it if I am to secure that ticket to America – the land of Petco and Whiskas.

The girls chatter as they cook, making spicy, vegetable-filled meals that hold no interest for me. I still use the opportunity to practice my begging techniques. The roommate is a baker and occasionally I go into a full force charm and aggravate offensive to net some pumpkin bread, ginger cookie or walnut-chocolate biscotti.

When it’s clear that there will be no table scraps for me, I sulk off on my nightly patrols. I take my job of protecting these females very seriously. No rats, snakes or other intruders on my watch. Before dawn, I’ll return to the sleepy house, ready to begin again. Ready for another day in the LSK..