At a Las Vegas gun store

What would it be like to work at the gun store, where tourists, in their khaki shorts, fanny packs and big white sneakers arrive to try out the weapons? The wives stand silently aside, while their husbands ask questions about ammo, load time, never safety.

Anna, who is an army brat, and grew up hunting every fall with her father, works there. She sees the men come through the door and look surprised to see her behind the counter. If one of the male associates is there--even Nate, the gun store owner's pimply son, who doesn't know squat about how to handle a weapon--they will head straight to him.

The coupon idea was hers. She made a deal with the owner: she'd finance the ad, and anyone coming in with that coupon was her customer. The first few weeks they trickled in, one or two over the course of a few days. But then it was one or two a day. They came in for all sorts of reasons--some just because they'd never squeezed off a round on a full automatic before and were looking to add it to their list of Las Vegas thrills, some serious gun buyers, some who didn't even care about the guns, but just couldn't resist a coupon for anything.

She started to find her niche. She was good with the couples. Anna would engage the timid wives, get them to put on the goggles and fire off a few rounds in the back. She'd see the fire come into their eyes, the adrenaline surge, watch their husbands get turned on--sometimes embarrassingly so. She knew if that happened, she's have a sure-fire sale.

Just by watching out for the couples, she increased the gun store's sales by eight percent over the last three months and her own commission had gone through the roof. All the sales men--even the guys who'd mocked Anna for her gimmick--were now trying to get the owner to let them do their own coupon too, thinking it was a magic trick. But only she got it. It was looking out for that special American combination of sex and violence that was bringing in the cash.

In memoriam

It's 8:34 AM on Monday, February 4. As I type this, Domi lays about five feet behind me. He's finally settled down, which takes him some time because his back end is so sore, and he's licking his right paw, probably as a self-soothing gesture.

In about three hours, our vet will arrive at the house, and she'll administer a drug to Domi that will put him to sleep forever.

We finally made the decision to put Domi down last week, but I was traveling, so we waited until I got home to do it. I wanted to be here for him and for T, who has been a nervous wreck all weekend. Well, we both have. I've waxed and waned between feeding Domi treats and bursting into tears. I don't know what good I'll be when the vet arrives. A big blubbery mess. But it's the right thing to do. Domi's been a big part of my life too.

Lately, I've taken to complaining about his stench and incontinence. I've been thinking about that this weekend. We haven't had the real Domi in our lives for a few years--the bubble loving, radish stealing Domi. We've had some other dog, and we've grown resentful of him. And it's a shame to feel that resentment at the end of his life. It was a shame to not be able to take him for a walk yesterday or do any of the things he used to love. On the last full day of his life, most of what we could do was wait for today. When my other animals get to this point, when my parents get to this point, when I get to this point--I don't want to turn to complaint and resentment. I want the joy remain more than just a hazy memory.

So Mr. Doms, who used to do 180 degree jumps in anticipation of a walk, who once stole a bagel with cream cheese right off my lap, who would chase soap bubbles around the yard endlessly, who forced me to be creative with my garden fencing techniques if I ever wanted a carrot, radish or green bean for myself, who bravely weathered the attacks of an insane german shepherd named Laika, who ferociously ate Domi-sized pancakes, who hoovered up clumps of freshly mown grass in the springtime, who made lots of Doms-sized friends at the dog park ... we love you.