Where's The Pooch?

It's an innocent enough question. Coming
across the large shambling man instantly
jogged your memory of a young poodle mix
exuberantly energetic and full of fun, a lovely
apricot colour and half the size of a standard
since it was bred from a poodle with a Lab
a most felicitous pairing that resulted in an
animal with a lovely conformation and an 
even more gracious temperament with all 
the known intelligence of the former breed 
and the friendliness of the latter. She was a 
delight. 'Was' is the operative here as her 
former companion shook his head and
simply said 'gone', to your great shock. 
She couldn't have been more than . . . 
'four years old', he supplied, nodding. And 
you stated your very sincere sympathy
felt like kicking yourself for even asking 
of her presence, but in fact the elderly man 
whom you hadn't seen all that often, was 
gratified that you'd remembered and
wanted to talk, and talk, and talk. About 
his loss and coping, and the unexpectedness 
of it all. And so, you listened, carefully 
as is your wont while commiserating
because you have your very own experience
 of the delight inherent in that special 
companionship and the emotional starkness 
that strikes when it is forever vanished.