Beyond the Screen: The Real 'Dog Based on a True Story' Behind Arthur

“Based on the Incredible True Story.” This declaration opens the trailer for the film Arthur the King, starring Mark Wahlberg, Simu Liu, Nathalie Emmanuel, and Ali Suliman. It promises a heartwarming saga of a scruffy stray dog and an endurance athlete who forge an unforgettable bond during an arduous adventure race across the Dominican Republic. This tale, immortalized in three books and translated into dozens of languages, has captivated millions. As the film’s poster highlights, its power lies in three core elements: An Unexpected Encounter. An Unlikely Bond. An Unforgettable Adventure. At its heart, the story celebrates perseverance, sacrifice, the profound connection between humans and their canine companions, and the inspiring notion that an ordinary individual can achieve the heroic act of “saving” a life at risk. Yet, amidst the fanfare, we are rarely prompted to question whose truth this is, or what other truths might lie beneath the polished surface of this seemingly “incredible true story.” The allure of a dog movie based on a true story often overshadows the nuances of reality.

By a remarkable coincidence, I possess knowledge of some of these alternative truths. The real “Arthur,” it turns out, originates from a village in Ecuador, not the Dominican Republic, where I have conducted ethnographic fieldwork for over two decades. Contrary to the film’s portrayal, I knew Barbuncho (his original name) to be neither a stray nor a victim of abuse. He was a cherished farm and jungle dog, delighting in roaming cacao and coffee fields and accompanying visiting doctors and tropical ecologists on their jungle expeditions. He offered profound comfort to his owner, Esteban (a pseudonym), following Esteban’s divorce. Esteban even composed ballads in Barbuncho’s honor, celebrating their deep companionship. A year after the dog’s “disappearance,” Esteban’s grandson lamented, “I really miss our dog. Why do gringos come here and take our dogs away?” This poignant question referred to previous instances where foreign volunteers had adopted local dogs, usually with the community’s explicit consent.

Unraveling the Myth: Barbuncho’s True Home

What underlying sociocultural forces enable a narrative to feel so undeniably true? Why have so many people—in disparate parts of the world, including Ecuador itself—become so invested in these fictionalized accounts, to the extent that even minor attempts to correct the story were met with heated accusations of abuse and even threats of violence and lynching? This intense backlash vividly illustrates the emotional sentiments and worldviews that shape belief, disbelief, and the very boundaries of deception. As I’ve explored elsewhere in a collaborative piece with my students, this narrative of saviorism draws its enduring power from the enduring legacy of settler colonialism, white supremacy, and racialized forms of symbolic and structural violence. By shedding light on the dynamics of truth and self-deception within the Arthur story, we can better understand how racism and coloniality persist and gain traction, even through the simplest of tales, perpetuating the romanticized idea of a movie dog based on true story.

Barbuncho: More Than a Stray

My heart skipped a beat in 2014 when I began reading a widely circulated article describing a “stray” dog that had “adopted a team of Swedish trekkers in the Amazon.” The article detailed how, after being fed a single meatball, the dog faithfully followed Mikael Lindnord and his team on an arduous journey through thick mud, dense jungle, and challenging river crossings. It was a remarkable narrative, yet it resonated with an unsettling familiarity. Then, I saw the accompanying photo of the dog in the PRI article: it was undeniably Barbuncho, the cheerful, perpetually dirty canine who eagerly seized any opportunity for a grand adventure through the biological reserve where I had intermittently conducted research since the early 2000s. As it turned out, the adventure racers were not, in fact, near the Amazon; despite the perceived jungle-like atmosphere, their location was on the Ecuadorian coast.

At that moment, I reached out to my friends in Ecuador, and Esteban confirmed that his dog was indeed missing. He expressed considerable bewilderment that there was such a global fervor over a dog simply tagging along on a trek, as this was precisely what Barbuncho habitually did. Barbuncho frequently followed others through the jungle—often foreign volunteers, sometimes Swedish ones, like myself—but he always eventually found his way back “home” to the main village. With its expansive rainforests, magnificent waterfalls, demanding mud trails, and abundant wildlife, this entire region was Barbuncho’s cherished playground. We knew him to join anyone embarking on the most daring escapades, whether it was a team of tropical biologists immersed in studying the reserve’s fauna, medical volunteers conducting vital health campaigns, or Esteban himself on his hunts for paca or agouti. Furthermore, Barbuncho enjoyed the luxury of multiple “homes,” much like his owner, dividing his time between a biological research station, Esteban’s farm, and a humble dwelling in a densely populated village. If Esteban departed from one of these locations and Barbuncho chose not to follow, other family members or close friends would readily step in to ensure he was fed and kept out of harm’s way. This robust communal safety net, which extended its support to animals, children, and the elderly alike, stands out as one of the aspects I most deeply appreciate about this remarkable community. To all of us who genuinely knew the dog, Barbuncho cherished his freedom above all, even if it sometimes meant a little mess.

Mikael Lindnord and Arthur, the dog based on a true story, in Ecuador

The Battle for the Narrative: Attempts to Correct the Story

As soon as Esteban confirmed the dog was Barbuncho, he implored me to contact Mikael Lindnord to inform him that the dog he was preparing to fly across the world did, in fact, belong to someone else. (My Ecuadorian friends universally wondered why Lindnord never considered inquiring whose dog it might be; everyone in the community knew Barbuncho.) Esteban, being at his remote farm without electricity or internet, was initially unaware of the unfolding global story. He was concerned about not speaking English or Swedish (both languages I happen to speak) and lacked social media on his phone at the time, communicating with me solely via WhatsApp. While I can understand that Lindnord was likely surprised and perhaps worried upon receiving my Facebook messages, especially given the considerable press coverage he had already garnered, he quickly raised concerns about animal abuse, even insinuating my potential complicity. My attempts to describe rural life, the prevalence of poverty, or culturally different standards of pet-keeping were met with ridicule and detailed descriptions of Barbuncho’s back wound (from a skirmish with another animal), his poor teeth, and his parasites. When I relayed these accusations to my friends in Ecuador, they simply laughed, responding, “Why is it such a big deal that Barbuncho had parasites and a wound? We all have parasites, machete wounds, infections, all of it. We’re poor and we get hurt while working the fields, producing cacao and all these products for all of you in the rest of the world.”

I reached out to multiple news outlets, attempting to correct the burgeoning story, but they showed no interest. Admittedly, I vented some frustration on social media, which led to people branding me an animal abuser or, at best, an agua fiesta (a buzzkill). I anticipated my position would be unpopular, but I genuinely did not expect it to be so utterly unbelievable. Most striking were individuals who acknowledged the unfair villainization of rural, poor people of color on Ecuador’s coast and the blatant disregard for their lives and truths, but who ultimately declared they didn’t care because it was “such a great story.” The fact that this narrative of possession was enabled by a longer history of dispossession, central to settler colonialism, simply did not matter. In the end, Barbuncho successfully made it to Sweden, to much fanfare, and Lindnord proceeded to establish a home for him and launch a lengthy career built upon this serendipitous event ten years ago. Coinciding with the film premiere in late February 2024, Lindnord announced the release of a children’s book in four languages: Young Arthur, which presumably recounts Arthur’s early life in the jungle before his encounter with Lindnord, adding another layer to the popular story of Hachi and similar canine tales.

Colonial Tropes and the “Savior” Complex

The numerous inconsistencies within the evolving Arthur narratives are highly revealing. They not only underscore the necessity for hyperbolic representations to render a story captivating for Hollywood, but they also expose the distorted lens through which the Global North frequently perceives the Global South. For instance, Lindnord’s repeated insistence that the dog was on the brink of death, despite Barbuncho’s demonstrable ability to follow them through extraordinarily challenging terrain for days on end, subtly reinforces a subconscious narrative of deprivation and suffering typically associated with the Global South. This narrative is further amplified when Lindnord broadly characterizes the entire rural region as utterly lacking any essential value for animals’ lives. The deep entrenchment of racist, colonial tropes becomes increasingly evident as Lindnord reflects on “how tough it must be to be a stray dog in this country, dependent on the kindness of strangers” because “some of the natives sure don’t show much kindness.” He employs age-old characterizations of rural people that serve to dispossess and disenfranchise:

it has just never been part of the culture for some parts of Ecuador to regard animals with any respect. They are kicked, shouted at, beaten—people know that there are no laws to protect the rights of animals, and it is not a crime to mistreat them, so people mistreat animals and they let their children mistreat them.

For this reason, he expands the scope of his rescue mission to encompass an entire culture: “Saving” is not merely directed at the specific dog with “all the diseases,” but at saving all the “Arthurs” of the world from unkind “natives” everywhere. Under the auspices of The Arthur Foundation, which appears to be no longer active, Lindnord advocated for a carceral response, pushing for stricter punishments for animal abuse and mistreatment in Ecuador, with the encouragement to implement similar laws globally. Ideal pet-keeping in the Global North is largely governed by law; the well-being of an animal is presumed to be ensured by stable homes with fenced yards, regular medical surveillance, and enforced quarantines and doggie daycares (upon leaving Ecuador, Barbuncho spent his first four months in Sweden in quarantine). Such detailed narratives often fuel the interest in books about Boo the dog or similar tales of rescued pets.

Hollywood’s Embellishments and the Obfuscation of Place

However, Lindnord is not alone in appearing to be swept up in this current of hyperbole and colonial tropes. The publishing industry and Hollywood readily follow suit. Barbuncho’s actual 30-mile journey (as the crow flies) is conflated with the team’s full expedition, described as “over the course of ten days and 435 miles”. Or, as Mark Wahlberg recently reported on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, “this dog travels 500 miles” and “the racer is going to get disqualified from the race because of the dog, and the racer chooses the dog.” The Library of Congress subject heading for the book lists Brazil and the Amazon River Region as keywords; in videos, Lindnord makes references to being stared at by Indigenous people in the Amazon and borrowing their Inca canoes (Ecuador’s coast is neither Amazonian nor close to any Incas). Furthermore, the movie itself was ultimately filmed in the Dominican Republic after a failed trial shoot in Puerto Rico. Outcry among Ecuadorians regarding the film’s setting and production in the Dominican Republic prompted a (dubious) explanation on social media, with Lindnord attributing the choice to a need for COVID protocols during filming. Yet, I would argue that a deliberate distance from the actual home and specifics of Barbuncho’s life was essential to sustain the deception inherent in, and perhaps legally protect them from, claims regarding “the true story.” The obfuscation of place serves to highlight that what truly matters is that the backdrop is tropical, untamed, and supposedly befitting a place inhabited by “Natives” who lack civilized customs of caring for animals. In essence, the ambiguity of the context is fundamental; rural folk (or “Natives”) in Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, or Puerto Rico function merely as a convenient foil through which the Global North can trumpet its own heroics and successes.

Internalized Stereotypes: Ecuadorian Reactions

Even Ecuadorians themselves are not immune to these troubling colonial stereotypes. When Esteban was eventually located by the Ecuadorian press and openly acknowledged his ownership of Barbuncho, it triggered national petitions advocating for his imprisonment. These petitions gained significant momentum primarily through urban elites from Quito and animal rights networks, providing a public stage for the social media backlash against the entire rural interior. Barbuncho’s physical health—and the immediate, unquestioning acceptance that his health issues were a result of personal choice rather than the structural conditions shared by his entire community—came to powerfully symbolize a more general anxiety that rural and coastal Afro-Ecuadorians and mestizos were holding the country back. The Ecuadorians who celebrated Lindnord’s “cultured” manner of pet-keeping did so to align themselves with a progressive notion of modernity, and they publicly denounced Esteban as a national embarrassment, apologizing for their “less-cultured” country folk. Primitive representations were starkly exchanged for savage ones; Esteban and those like him were implicitly branded as backward, barbaric, and abusive. The complex ethics behind stories like A Dog’s Purpose true story often highlight these societal perceptions.

Doggie Desires and Deeper Deceptions

For a small indulgence in self-deception, we are rewarded with the joy of celebrating the unwavering loyalty and profound friendship between human and dog, especially when the story features a dog so utterly determined to keep pace with his “best friend.” What’s more, in a difficult world plagued by relentless news cycles and polarizing debates, we often feel we deserve to feel good. Dogs serve as the perfect objects of salvation, allowing us to project our desires (and perhaps theirs) for uncomplicated companionship and loving relationships amidst the challenges of late capitalism. Interestingly, Lindnord and his enthusiastic supporters counter any and all skepticism about the story by repeatedly insisting that he didn’t choose the dog, but rather, “the dog chose us.” This, they imply, should effectively end any debate. Yet, when asked what he would do if contacted by the dog’s original owner, Lindnord firmly stated, “I have microchipped Arthur. I am his owner.”

In its carefully constructed deceptions, this “incredible true story” ultimately reveals a deeper, more unsettling truth. The narrative wields such immense force because of the inherent, feel-good reward of a loyal dog and the allure of heartwarming heroics. However, the legend of Arthur remained largely unquestioned because it is underpinned by a more profound, albeit less incredible, truth: a pervasive racist and colonial “common sense.” Within this harmful logic, rural backwardness and tropical savagery are used to justify and amplify the perceived civility of the North and its supposed natural claim to property. These deeply ingrained stereotypes do more than simply misinform; they entrench damaging, savior-type ideologies that validate the North’s interference in the affairs of the Global South. In stories such as these, rural populations are systematically denied their agency, unfairly cast as villains, and their complex lives are oversimplified, ignoring the intricate realities and structural roots of their experiences. In the end, it is the heroism and the narrative of conquest that we are truly eager to consume, rather than confronting the continuous extraction and dispossession that make such tales possible. It is an age-old story, repackaged. In the late capitalist Hollywood rendition, every visible and important stakeholder stands to benefit: Lindnord, the dog, the film producers and cast, and dog lovers worldwide. The ultimate deceit, however, is that this seemingly win-win success is predicated on the moral and political disenfranchisement of Barbuncho’s people—his home, his family, and his community.

Dog Stories

Beyond the Screen: The Real ‘Dog Based on a True Story’ Behind Arthur