Jib here.
Today is something called Beaster. Or maybe tomorrow. Mom says it's a time for eggs to die.
The GrandGirls killed eggs today. Mom says the eggs are died.
The eggs smelled great!
Mom said she shouldn't have left them so close to the edge.
My nose just fits on the edge.
The blue one was delicious.
Especially the shell.
I licked up every last bit.
Happy Beaster. Egg.
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