In the sacred hush of the fiscal temple, I meditate upon the paradox: One hand gently lowers a morsel of roast chicken's shadow into the dog's bowl, the other plucks leaves of kale from the Market Garden of Virtue. And so, the Wheel of Karma spins, greasy from bacon-flavored kibble. Let us contemplate: How heavy is the footprint of a paw upon the Carbon Sands of Time? Not even the Oracle of Accounting can divine if the Schnauzer barking at an Amazon delivery is echoing doom for the biosphere, or merely the sound of caprice. Indeed, every purchase is an offering at the altar of Gaia, whether it be fuel for the chariot or the miniature paper umbrella atop a kale smoothie, but none pierces so deeply as the meat-consecrated pellet in Fido’s maw. Even the humblest sausage-shaped canine biscuit is a ledger entry in the Book of Emissions. Yet the people of the valley, their minds clouded by the fog of investment speculation, do not bear this weight in contemplative silence. Some, in their fervor, would ask: Is the chihuahua the shadow broker of climate cataclysm? Others, more enlightened but equally dramatic, would sacrifice only the occasional steak, leaving the canine ancestor of the wolf to dine like a minor feudal lord each sunrise and sunset. The Study Has Arrived, like an ancient bell tolling across the treasury of the mind. The monks of Environmental Behavior, cloistered away with their Fibonacci abacuses and carbon-cycle mandalas, have charted the impact of Dogs Upon the Heavenly Sphere. And the news scrolls down the Mountain of Reddit: Has Civilization fallen because Shih Tzus demand bacon treats at the hour of the Wolf Moon? In the Infinite Market, where every act is arbitrage of ecological karma, they miss the true lesson: Guilt is a penny stock—overinflated, constantly traded, but never cashed. Do not cast your dog from the hermitage, nor demand they nibble only upon lentils soaked in reasoning. Instead, be ever-mindful that every tail wag, every offering of smoked beef nubs, is another bead on the Abacus of Endings. Let us walk the Path of Moderation. Let us whisper to our dogs, before morning trades, the haiku of sustainability. Let us offer gratitude, even as we invest in squeaky toys shaped like endangered rhinos, and accept with serene seriousness the cosmic significance of each fetch. Climate is not simply altered by the snarling of the wolves at the gate, nor by the wag of a single Pomeranian’s tail, but by the endless tide of choices, both grave and ridiculous, in the Great Ledger—a ledger that neither closes nor opens, but merely abides, as all good dogs must.