That last pup in the litter tugs hardest at the heart. One by one, they’ve all been snapped up by pudgy kids and indulgent parents until only the forgotten runt remains. That’s when the world calls out for a pure soul, the kind of person who will, for instance, walk into a denuded Sahara Hotel suite at the big liquidation sale, amble across the soiled carpet, momentarily admire the view of the Fontainebleau (that angel that never came down from heaven) and say to the ratty old upended couch, You’re the one for me! This is love. This is Vegas.