Cheese Slices Are No Longer Just Cheese Slices

There are moments you don’t realise are significant at the time.

Small, everyday things that quietly become part of your routine—so normal you don’t question them.

Until one day, they’re gone.

And suddenly… cheese slices aren’t just cheese slices anymore.

• The Little Things That Hit the Hardest

Life after Arnhem hasn’t been defined by one big moment of loss.

It’s been a thousand small ones.

The absence of weight leaning against your legs.

The silence where there used to be movement, presence, expectation.

The missing shadow that followed from room to room.

And then there are the routines.

Opening the fridge and instinctively reaching for a cheese slice—not because you want one, but because he always had one.

Only now, that moment lands differently.

Because those cheese slices were never just treats. They were part of caring for him—used to hide his medication. Not that he knew it!

The second the wrapper started to open, he’d hear it.

Anticipate it.

Be ready.

That tiny sound meant something to him.

Now it means something very different to us.

• The Space He Leaves Behind

Arnhem wasn’t just “a dog in the house.”

He was structure.

He was routine.

He was presence.

His absence has left a space that isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, behavioural, and deeply ingrained in how we move through our day.

For John, that space runs deeper than most.

Arnhem wasn’t just his dog—he was his companion in the truest sense of the word.

They didn’t just live alongside each other… they shared a life. They had adventures together.

They sought out the same things—movement, challenge, purpose. From canicross trails to long days out in the Welsh hills, they worked as one.

There was an unspoken understanding between them.

They were incredibly alike—strong, powerful, protective… but underneath it all, soft.

It’s a rare thing to find that kind of match.

Not just a dog that fits your lifestyle—but one that reflects who you are.

For years, Arnhem was his shadow.

Where John went, Arnhem went. Not out of obligation, but because that’s where he belonged.

And when you lose that… you don’t just lose a dog.

You lose your partner in everything.

Now, those adventures are still happening.

The trails are still being run.

The hills are still being climbed.

The routines still exist.

But they’re different.

Atlas is there now, building his own story, his own partnership with John. And that relationship is growing into something special in its own right.

But Arnhem is always there too—in the memories,in the comparisons that quietly happen,

in the way certain moments still feel like they’re missing something.

Not in a way that holds things back— but in a way that reminds you just how much was shared.

Because when you’ve had a companion like that… every step forward still carries a piece of them with you.

• When Purpose Changes Overnight

For me, the change has been different again.

I was his main caregiver. Every day had a purpose built around him—making sure he was comfortable, planning what he needed, thinking ahead to keep him settled, making sure we were doing enough… always asking, is he happy? is he okay?

That responsibility becomes part of you. It’s not something you switch on and off—it’s constant, in the background of everything you do.

And then suddenly… it’s gone.

There’s no medication to prepare.

No careful planning around his needs.

No checking, watching, adjusting.

No constant awareness of him.

And what’s left is a strange kind of emptiness.

Not just grief—but a loss of purpose.

Because when you’ve spent so long caring for something so completely, you don’t just lose them…

you lose the role you had in their life too.

It leaves a quiet question behind:

What do I do with that space now?

• The Quiet Shift

Arnhem and Atlas were an interesting pair.

They were friends.

Roommates.

Companions.

But they weren’t what most people would call “close.” They didn’t share a bed. They weren’t constantly intertwined. Their relationship was quieter than that—steady, understood, without needing to be obvious.

When it came time to say goodbye, Atlas didn’t want to be part of it.

And that, in itself, said a lot.

But since Arnhem has gone… Atlas has changed.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that shouts for attention. But in all the subtle ways that matter.

He is more attentive.

More affectionate.

More tactile.

More considerate.

There’s a softness to him that wasn’t quite there before.

Even simple things—like eating—have shifted. It’s no longer a competition. There’s no presence to measure against, no need to rush or guard or compare.

It’s as though, in Arnhem’s absence, Atlas has quietly stepped into something new. Not replacing him—never that—but adapting, adjusting, and perhaps even growing in ways that only this change could bring.

• Grief Isn’t Linear—It’s Habitual

People often talk about grief as waves.

But in reality, it’s often habits.

It’s reaching for the lead that’s no longer needed.

Listening out for a sound that won’t come.

Glancing at the spot where he should be.

It’s the sound of a cheese wrapper that no longer brings him running.

It’s not always overwhelming. Sometimes it’s just… there. Quiet, persistent, woven into the day.

• The Things He Left Us

As much as Arnhem’s absence is felt, so is his influence.

He shaped how we train.

He shaped how we communicate.

He shaped how we understand dogs—not just behaviourally, but emotionally.

He reminded us that dogs are individuals.

That relationships aren’t always instant.

That trust is built, not forced.

And perhaps most importantly—he reminded us to trust ourselves.

• Moving Forward Without Moving On

There’s a difference between moving forward and moving on.

We haven’t moved on from Arnhem.

We won’t.

But we are learning to move forward with what he gave us.

In our work at Curious Canine, he’s still there—in the way we guide adolescent dogs,

in how we read behaviour, in the importance we place on relationships over quick fixes.

His legacy isn’t something we leave behind. It’s something we carry into everything we do.

• The Support Around Us

One of the things that has stood out most through all of this is the support we’ve had. Arnhem was never treated as “just a dog”—and that mattered.

His primary vet went above and beyond at every stage. Not because she had to, but because she genuinely cared. She supported him through everything, and even put together a care package for his final “holiday”—a gesture that meant more than words can really capture.

And when the time came, she made sure his final moments were peaceful.

Calm.

Dignified.

Exactly as he deserved.

At work, my colleagues—who are all veterinary professionals—were incredible. They made sure Arnhem received the very best care possible, but they didn’t stop there. They looked after me too.

They understood what he meant, what he represented, and what losing him would take.

His physical therapy team, who he had been working with for over 6 years, made sure he received the best possible chance of maintaining mobility, and dignity. They even enabled him to fulfil part of his 'bucket list' and have one last feeling of total freedom of movement in the pool.

And outside of that, our friends and family gave us something just as important—understanding.

They didn’t minimise it.

They didn’t dismiss it.

They didn’t call him “just a dog.”

They recognised him for what he was—family.

And in moments like this, that understanding makes all the difference.

• The New Normal

Life doesn’t “go back to normal.”

It just becomes something different.

A quieter house.

A shift in routine.

Moments that feel a little emptier.

But also moments of reflection.

Of gratitude.

Of understanding just how much one dog can shape your life.

• And The Cheese Slices?

They’re still in the fridge. Still bought out of habit.

Still a reminder of everything he was. Of the care he needed. Of the routine you built around him. Of the way he’d appear the second he heard that wrapper.

Because they were never really about cheese.

They were about connection.

Responsibility.

Routine.

And love.

• Where He Rests

We didn’t want Arnhem to be remembered in just one place. He was too much a part of everything for that. So instead, he is still with us—just in different ways.

Part of him remains in the house. Quietly. Subtly.

A small silver rose, unknown to most people, sits in place—holding part of his ashes. Watching over us in the background, just as he always did.

Part of him is in the garden.

On guard duty.

Where he can “keep watch” over the things that mattered to him—cats, pigeons, the occasional train to shout at. Outside, in his element, in the space he enjoyed most.

And part of him will make one final journey.

Back to Wales.

To the mountain he and John shared—where they camped, explored, and were at their happiest together. A place where he was strong, able, and completely himself.

That’s where we’ll remember him like that.

We won’t build a shrine. That was never who he was, and it’s not who we are.

But he will have a presence here.

In the home.

In the garden.

In the places that mattered.

Because that’s what he deserves.

• Always Part of Us

Arnhem may no longer be physically beside us, but he is still part of our lives in ways that matter.

In the quiet moments.

In the work we do.

In the lessons we pass on.

In Atlas, and the quiet changes he carries forward.

And in every small, unexpected reminder— like a cheese slice that suddenly means so much more.

Because once you’ve had a dog like Arnhem… even the smallest things are never just small things again.