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Dear Ann Landers,
his short story is based on my own experience and I think it will touch anyone who has ever owned a pet. I wrote it with tears in my eyes. Will you please print it? -Chuck Wells, Palmyra, N.Y. Dogs Don't Have Souls, Do They? I remember bringing you home. You were so small and cuddly with your tiny paws and soft fur. You bounced around the room with eyes flashing and ears flopping. Once in a while, you'd let out a litde yelp just to let me know this was your territory. Making a mess of the house and chewing on everything in sight be-came a passion, and when I scolded you, you just put your head down and looked up at me with those innocent eyes, as if to say, "I'm sorry, but I'll do it again as soon as you're not watching." As you got older, you protected me by looking out the window and barking at everyone who walked by. When I had a tough day at work, you would be waiting for me with your tail wagging just to say, "Welcome home. I missed you." You never had a bad day, and I could always count on you to be there for me. When I sat down to read the paper and watch TV, you would hop on my lap, looking for attention. You never asked for anything more than to have me pat your head so you could go to sleep with your head over my leg. As you got older, you moved around more slowly. Then, one day, old age finally took its toll, and you couldn't stand on those wobbly legs any- 1 fi 4 / ANN LANDERS more. I knelt down and patted you lying there, trying to make you young again. You just looked up at me as if to say you were old and tired and that after all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me for one last favor. With tears in my eyes, I drove you one last time to the vet. One last time, you were lying next to me. For some strange reason, you were able to stand up in the animal hos

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Our Reader to Reader Question of the Week:


Dear Readers,
, irritated and just plain mystified. For the third time in less than a year, one of my husband’s socks has vanished after having been tossed into the washing machine. I know very well that I would never put one lone sock in the washer. A pair went in, so what has happened to the other one? People write to you about every imaginable problem under the sun. You must have had this at one time or another. What did you say? -Edna, Atlanta Dear Edna: I have indeed been asked the question before. The best response came from Nancy Drechsler of North Carolina: Oh where, oh where is the other sock? Is it under the bed, or caught in the casters, Or clinging to the basement rafters? Trapped in the plumbing? Stuffed in a shoe? In a darkened corner Hiding from you? Have they gone to camp and returned alone? Been kicked off, perhaps, by the telephone? An argyle a starling’s home, Striped sock found its way to Rome? Perhaps there is an odd sock elf, Who takes them to some woodsy shelf. But truthfully, I know their fate The dirty ones disintegrate. Dear Nancy: It’s true. Old socks never die. They just fade away. In a later column, a reader gave me a more logical explanation: Single socks often get caught in the agitator and flip between the drum and the side of the washer. You can find them if you ever take the machine apart. If you lose them in the dryer, then you’re on your own. When I first began writing this column, a lot of my mail concerned house-keeping issues-should the sheets be ironed? Should a wife serve her family breakfast wearing rollers and a bathrobe? Of course, back in the 1950s, no one knew about permanent-press linens nor would anyone consider telling the husband to pitch in-after all, most women stayed at home, and housework was their job. When I told a reader that she didn’t need to apologize for being in her bathrobe when she greeted a salesman at 9:00 in the morning, all hell broke loose. This is what happened in 1958:

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"Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and repeat to yourself, the most comforting words of all; this, too, shall pass."
-Ann Landers