When our veterinarian saw her, he declared, "This is the oldest dog I have ever seen." After examining the frail thing, the news was not good. She was blind, deaf, had few teeth, and was very, very thin. "She has clearly been through a lot. She may only live another few days or weeks, but if you give her a home, then, at least, her last moments will be comfortable."
Penny lived for three more years.
She had the most indomitable spirit I have ever encountered. How she survived on the city streets for months without seeing or hearing anything, I will never know. Once she settled into the house, she assessed the situation, discovered (through smell?) some paths where she could get to her food and water without bumping into furniture. If she made a mistake and ended up at a wall, she would wait there patiently until someone rescued her and put her back to somewhere familiar. She was amazingly adaptable, patient, a model of endurance.
And she was also the most loving of dogs. Perhaps this was because she was so thankful for having a home. Whenever I picked her up, she had a way of wrapping her front paws around my chest as if she were hugging me. She gave me abundant stinky kisses. She loved nothing better than to be snuggled and, occasionally, to be given a piece of popcorn.