It is, indeed.
They see our best shots, and the misses of the easiest birds we could ever hope to shoot. They see us drag boats for hundreds of yards, and watch us forget about the last drainage ditch in the field. They will sit with ice on their coats, wanting nothing more than to go get one more...one more...one more. They shiver not from cold, but from the flock skirting the edge of the decoys. They sit in the rain, pondering your sanity with you. They get up early; they know the difference between a briefcase and a gun case. Between a coat and tie and the camo parka. They grin, and they pout. They cheer the hits, and they groan with you at the misses. If you ever needed a definition of sadness, it is a retriever watching a missed bird fly away...and be prepared to be chastised accordingly.
They are there for the best and the worst, and the hardest part of having such a good partner is that they are gone so soon.
The memories hurt, as maybe they should, for a while. But eventually you will see them for the treasures they are.
I am sorry for your loss.