The first time I remember getting a "tingle" from a woman on the movie screen, she was Hedy Lamarr as Delilah. That shows how damned old I am! My Delilah is a delightful mixed breed dog, named in memory of that bit of self-disovery. In dog years, she's roughly as old as I am.
Like me, she has some age-related limitations. Unlike me, she does not appear to fret over them. Her vitamins and anti-inflammatories taste like treats, so she doesn't resent having to take them, as I hate taking enough pills to keep at least one drug company in business. She's now functionally deaf, but, perhaps fortunately for her, there's no $3,000 hearing aid that we could jam into her ear to make her hear like a puppy again. Also unlike me.
She'd never qualify for Mensa for Dogs. If I'm holding a treat for her, she'll eagerly watch as I lay it on the floor, and when she sees me cover it with a piece of paper, she'll begin to look around elsewhere. "It was there, and it's still there, under the paper," is beyond her reasoning level. When I open the bedroom door in the morning, she'll happily bound out and go to look for me at my computer desk. Yeah, I could be holding the bedroom door open and also sitting at the computer in another room. Why not?
Her sense of smell appears to be as good as ever, as does her memory. Her vision is a little blurred by cataracts, but dogs don't depend primarily on vision anyway. Her short, powerful legs can't pump as fast as they did previously, and she needs assistance getting onto our bed or into a car.
What's my point, since you probably know as much about old dogs as I do? That she still acts excited about life, and content with her existence.
If Delilah were like me and others of my age and temperament, it would be different.
Instead of just enjoying a car ride, she'd be moping and thinking "it's so humiliating that I can't get in the car by myself."
After chasing a stray cat at our country place, she wouldn't be bouncing around excitedly. She'd be thinking "a few years ago I could run down any rabbit, and now a damned common cat gets away from me! It didn't even have to climb a tree!"
Her deafness would bother her a lot more. She'd be annoyed that we don't use a boat horn, which she can still hear, to communicate with her. She'd be wondering if we're talking about her, if we move our lips without making a sound just to annoy her. Instead of being satisfied that we can signal come here, get down, stop, stay, go find (Paul or Miriam), and the ever useful bad dog message, she'd be fretting that she can't hear someone at the door, can't hear the refrigerator being opened, or silverware against dinnerware, a sure sign in the past that someone was almost finished eating something and that she'd be getting a plate or bowl to lick.
She takes and enjoys what she has, and doesn't torture herself over what she's lost.
She may not be bright, but there's a lot to learn from her.