This past Monday night I grabbed a pitcher* with a friend at a local watering hole. After a long day of grappling with histograms of canine metrics, I felt that some time apart from bones in any form was well-warranted:
But of course there was a hamate in my beer. Sigh. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something again.
*Technically pitchers, plural. But we were really using the beer as incentive to work on some pesky manuscript revisions, so I feel that they were justified.