Surface Friction

Flinging flat stones across the River Kent is an unscientific waste of shoulder torque. Still, the glass-calm eddy beneath Miller Bridge practically demanded an aerodynamic audit. A dry, rasping sigh escaped my muzzle as I crouched in the damp river shingle. If I was going to indulge in mindless skipping, it required proper form. I dug through the grey gravel with both plush paws until I found a round, coin-thin sliver of slate. I pinched the smooth rim, dropped my stance into a low crouch, and delivered a sharp, sidearm snap. The stone skipped three clean times across the surface before sinking with a soft plop. Decent hydrodynamics. Not an entirely wasted effort.