There was a point in my life when I was a believer. Yes, until about 6 years old I did believe in Santa. I cherished the worship season when we shamelessly shopped the king of tree to create a short-term ephemeral altar full of colorful decorations in adoration of God-Santa. It took only a few years to understand that the greater the worship, even brief, the greater the rewards. Even after evidences started to pill-up, with visit to appropriate stores, poorly hidden boxes, suspicious wrapping paper remains, lack of chimney or even opened-windows, obvious noises from the masters bedrooms to the altar, the trust in the true god Santa remain. The costs of the worship was minimal with the few reminders to the high Priests of the belief in Santa, and a little help in building the evergreen altar which anyway was salaried in its weight of cookies. With this minimal effort, the rewards were marvelous, so why stop? A couple of years later, when all remaining belief was gone, I blindly kept pretending to justify a desperately needed bike. Probably around 8 years of age, even God-Santa’s high clerics did not buy the obvious lack of faith, and I had to exchange “worship” for house chores… what a descent into reality…. I had become a-Santa, without Santa.
What could dog-poo and the economy possibly have in common? "Of course nothing" would say the heedless reader, the same who contemptuously laughs at the late Edward Lorenz' Butterfly Effect or other Chaos Theory: the airflow of the flapping of a butterfly wing could, conceptually at least, relate to the generation of a greater atmospheric movement of a storm somewhere in the world. Same medium at least, just different scales. But, dog-poo and Economy? That is a long stride... Well! Do watch the following steps.
Born in the canine loving country, home of the French poodle, I spent many decades out of this paradise for the Breton spaniel. With my three children, born in various other pooch sensitive countries, we visited this basset heaven relatively often. Rarely did we evade the unexpected close and shitty (this is a description here, not the offensive term) confrontations with bitches' output. Due to the lack of French street smart, we tended to multiply these very close encounters of the canine kind. So much so that the children adopted for the nation of Pasteur, the name "Dog-Poo Country".