In Passing

At 9 a.m. this morning we will be attending a dog memorial event in our local park. Most of the morning dogs and their human companions will attend as well, since it's prime time for dog bounding. A pinch of ashes will be scattered at a major dog sign post and anyone who is so inclined can speak. Dog treats will be on offer.
The dog to be remembered was not a dog's dog. She had long since forsworn mindless charging around and had honed her treat detection and dignified begging skills to an enviable art. Her name was Porsche. With Paul, her escort, she roamed the park and surrounding streets in a stately manner, allowing affection to be bestowed, gracefully avoiding the body-slamming young punk terriers and Boston Bulls, being a quiet, wise and good companion.
Porsche and Paul had lived in many places and travelled far. When she was diagnosed with cancer, two months ago, his world imploded.
About a week after the diagnosis, Porsche came to the park with some guy no one had seen before. Paul was in the ICU, the guy said. Don't know how bad it is, I'm just a roommate. Bleeding ulcer, something like that.
Paul came back, thinner. He had recently dieted off some extra pounds and bought new jeans to fit his smaller girth. They now hung, low and baggy. His jacket billowed, full of air.
And then a neighbor reported a half-hour morning traffic jam on our main street. We get traffic there and trucks double-parked but no prolonged stopages. Some nut, my neighbor said. Just found out his dog has cancer and lost it, I guess. Stabbed some guy at an intersection. Nobody died. Lots of cops and stuff, given there's not much else to worry about in our neighborhood in the pre-noon hours.
What would Judge Judy do? (WWJJD)