An Easter Egg Story

This is not a story about Easter eggs. It is a story about eggs, and it occurred at Easter time.

Just so you know.

I don't usually buy my eggs in trays of 30, but it's true I didn't specify, when Dad asked what we needed from the store, that a dozen or so would suffice. I also didn't specify, because I like to live on the edge, that he might look for a tray in which Egg #27 hadn't been sitting there, broken an unrefrigerated, for 10 days.

Fortunately, I smelled Egg #27 even before opening the plastic seal - I'm lucky like that. So I took it outside to open it.

Dad watched through a window.

I brought in all the unsullied eggs and put them away. Then I went back for the sullied ones. A couple of them had become very attached to Egg #27, and had to be pried off of the cardboard carton.

I always thought eggshells were porous. Isn't some sort of oxygen exchange necessary for the (hypothetical) wee little developing chicks? And if so, wouldn't the rotten egg-ness osmose into the neighboring eggs? Well, I was assured that no such osmosis would occur; that the unbroken eggs wouldn't be any the worse for wear for spending 10 days next to--yea, bathed in--the slowly rotting guts of Egg #27, so I went ahead and washed them off.

I think, though, that the consuming of those particular eggs should be a voluntary affair, so I also took the liberty of marking them so we'll all know which are which at egg-selection time.


By the time I had the sullied eggs properly situated and went back outside with a plastic bag in which to seal Egg #27, its neighbor to the west (which was also cracked), and the rotten-egg-permeated cardboard, I made an intriguing discovery.

It seems that dogs like rotten eggs. They also like rotten-egg-permeated cardboard.

Note to self: No kissing the dogs.