Greetings, featherless friends!
Henrietta Featherbottom here, your soon-to-be favorite hen and undisputed star of the Featherbottom Flock.
I've noticed a distinct lack of essential knowledge circulating in this digital barnyard — specifically, about me. Consider this your mandatory orientation. A Henrietta Handbook, if you will.
Prepare to be enlightened, amused, and a tad envious as I unveil:
Ten Feathered Facts That Prove Henrietta Featherbottom is, Quite Frankly, Exceptional
My gotcha day anniversary is approaching.
I will be celebrating my very first Gotcha Day extravaganza on August 21, 2025. One glorious year of gracing my featherless servants with my presence! Expect fanfare. And possibly cake crumbs. (The good kind, obviously.)
I am a Lavender Orpington.
Hailing from England, we Orpingtons are the epitome of friendly, hardy, and productive (producing an average of 200 eggs a year). Our dusty purple coloration isn't yet recognized by the American Poultry Association — a mere formality, honestly — we're too fabulous to associate with that "poultry" club anyway. While we're still relatively rare in the States, we're soaring in popularity among chicken enthusiasts. Afterall, we Orpington chickens lay 200 eggs on average per year!
My eggs are legendary.
I lay soft pink chicken eggs (and I lay them with gusto!) How do I maintain this standard of perfection? Only the finest fuel will do: soy- and GMO-free layer pellets – because nothing less than premium nutrition touches this beak.
I have impeccable etiquette.
Unlike certain flock members, I have manners. I come promptly when called. I return to the pen without fuss. And I never, EVER poop on my Mom. It's basic decency, really. The others? They could learn a thing or two.
Beneath my glamorous exterior beats the heart of a softy.
Snuggles and head scratches are my favorite. I close my eyes and purr to let the humans know they are doing a satisfactory job. Consider it the highest compliment!
I am very particular about my nest.
I am an artiste, and my canvas is the nesting box. And the foundation? CRITICAL. I require Small Pet Select Pine Bedding Chicken Shavings – perfectly dust-controlled and odor-absorbing. Anything else my well-meaning (but tragically misguided) humans have tried? Dusty, smelly, utterly unacceptable.
Flock Dynamics (TLDR: I'm the Star).
I reside with six siblings: four fellow Lavender Orpingtons (charming, but lacking my sparkle), one earnest Rhode Island Red, and one rather... enthusiastic Speckled Sussex (Twilight, we adore you, but it's a nesting box, NOT a litter box) I cherish my flock mates, but everyone knows I'm the favorite. It's simply the natural order.
I have a refined palate.
When presented with my favorite chicken scratch feed, I perform a delicate operation: meticulously picking out every single glorious sunflower seed. I make sure to leave a few for the less refined flock mates. A hen of my caliber knows where the real treasure lies.
My patience has its limits.
When the scent of steamed rice hits the air, I transform. I will BEG. Like. A. Dog. Honestly, it is barbaric. I shouldn't have to lower myself to such undignified displays —prompt rice service is a basic right!
My leisure pursuits.
My idea of a perfect afternoon? Being carried around the yard, providing vital aerial surveillance, and conducting intensive bug-scouting missions — luxurious and practical.
There you have it, darlings! Ten feathers in the cap of my magnificent existence. Any questions? Direct them to "Dear Henrietta"... coming soon to a coop near you! Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I sense steamed rice.
