Our fluffball, our baby, our idiot, our kitten, our Easter turns one year old this week.

She snuggles like a baby.

She has the attention span of a toddler.

She has the ambition of a teenager and is keen to get her driver’s license.

She wrestles with her mama Ralph, errant stones on the driveway or the strings on my lawn chair.

She’s always starving and has been known to break into the house in order to get to the milk at the bottom of my cereal bowl (seriously, she’s crafty). She has also learned to hunt for herself.

She thinks she’s a dog, chasing sticks, digging holes and coming when Matt whistles.

Her voice is still her squeaky kitten meow unless she thinks we’re abandoning her–going down the driveway to take out the garbage or walking around the corner of the house out of her line of sight are cause for very long loud meows.

Around the farm, she’s known as baby (my label), BH (Matt’s holdover from when we called her “Big Head“), DB (“Dancing Bear,” Matt’s label for her tendency to rear up on her hind legs so that you can scratch her head), and occasionally Easter.

Happy birthday, Easter.