Sad Little Faces

I just love chickens.  I get such a kick out of the feathered little busybodies, gossiping as they scratch in the dirt, sunbathing and taking dirt baths, cheering each other on when an egg is produced.  I laugh at the roosters as they strut their stuff, Mr. Aren't-I-Grand, hoping to impress the girls, who go on about their business saying, "Yeah, yeah.  Look at you."  The flock comes tumbling out of the coop in the morning, hoping to find some vegetable goodies in amongst the scratch I've thrown down.  In the evening, they race around the corner to greet me as I open the gate and cluster around my feet as I take them in for the night.  Five days a week, I stop at the pen on the way to the house to fill the chickens' bowl with milk.  They get all excited when they hear the clank of the buckets and run to the fence, almost hopping up and down.  Unfortunately for them, two days a week I need to save all the milk for my customer.  I have to turn my head away as I walk on up the drive.  "Hey!  What about us?  Come back!  Where's our milk shake?"  All those sad little faces lined up at the fence.  I feel like such a big meany.  Today will be a good day for the flock; they'll get their slurp and I'll be a hero again.