Dog Stories

Arthur the King: The Dog Movie Based on a True Story… Or Is It?

Posted on by Jonh Luke
Mikael Lindnord and Arthur the dog in Ecuador, central to the controversial true story dog movie.

“Based on the Incredible True Story.” This powerful declaration often sets the stage for films that captivate audiences with narratives of extraordinary events and deep emotional connections. Such is the case with Arthur the King, the much-anticipated dog movie based on a true story, starring Mark Wahlberg, Simu Liu, Nathalie Immanuel, and Ali Suliman. The film promises a heartwarming tale of an endurance athlete and a scruffy stray dog who forge an unbreakable bond during a gruelling adventure race across the Dominican Republic. This narrative, celebrated in multiple books and languages, has deeply resonated with millions, underscoring themes of perseverance, sacrifice, and the profound connection between humans and their canine companions. It champions the idea that ordinary individuals can embody profound heroism by “saving” a vulnerable being. Yet, as we immerse ourselves in such compelling accounts, we rarely pause to question whose “truth” is being told, or what other realities might lie beneath the polished surface of these widely disseminated “incredible true stories.” For those who are captivated by emotional animal narratives, considering a sad dog book can sometimes offer a different kind of insight into the complexities of human-animal relationships.

By a stroke of remarkable coincidence, I possess a unique insight into some of these untold truths. The “real” Arthur, as it happens, hails from a village in Ecuador, a place where I have conducted ethnographic fieldwork for over two decades—not the Dominican Republic, as depicted in the film. My experience paints a starkly different picture: Barbuncho, as he was originally known, was neither a stray nor an abused animal. He was a cherished farm and jungle dog, who revelled in exploring cacao and coffee fields and accompanying visiting doctors and tropical ecologists on their jungle expeditions. Barbuncho offered immense comfort to his owner, Esteban (a pseudonym), following Esteban’s divorce. Esteban even composed ballads in honor of his dog’s unwavering companionship. A year after Barbuncho’s “disappearance,” Esteban’s grandson wistfully remarked, “I really miss our dog. Why do gringos come here and take our dogs away?” His lament alluded to other instances where foreign volunteers had adopted and taken dogs from the community, though usually with explicit consent.

What intrinsic sociocultural dynamics lend credibility to certain stories? Why have so many people—across diverse corners of the globe, including Ecuador itself—become so emotionally invested in these narrative fictions? So much so that even a modest attempt to clarify the story resulted in fierce accusations of abuse, and even threats of violence and lynching? This intense backlash vividly illustrates the emotional sentiments and deeply ingrained worldviews that shape belief, disbelief, and the very boundaries of what constitutes deception. As I have explored in a co-authored piece with my students, this pervasive story of “saviorism” draws its immense power from the enduring legacy of settler colonialism, white supremacy, and racialized forms of both symbolic and structural violence. Unveiling the intricate dynamics of truth and self-deception within the Arthur narrative enables us to perceive how racism and coloniality persist, thriving and gaining traction even through the seemingly most innocuous of tales.

Mikael Lindnord and Arthur the dog in Ecuador, central to the controversial true story dog movie.Mikael Lindnord and Arthur the dog in Ecuador, central to the controversial true story dog movie.

Barbuncho: The Real Dog Behind the “Stray” Narrative

My heart leaped in 2014 when I first read a widely circulated article proclaiming how a “stray” dog had “adopted a team of Swedish trekkers in the Amazon.” The article detailed how, after being offered a meatball, the dog had followed Mikael Lindnord and his teammates on a grueling journey through deep mud, dense jungle, and challenging river crossings. It was a remarkable narrative, yet it resonated with an unsettling familiarity. Then, I saw the accompanying photograph in the PRI article: it was undeniably Barbuncho, the cheerful, often mud-splattered canine who enthusiastically seized every chance to embark on extended adventures through the reserve where I had intermittently conducted fieldwork since the early 2000s. Contrary to the article’s depiction, the adventure racers were not in the Amazon; despite the perceived similarities in the “jungle-y” atmosphere, they were actually on the Ecuadorian coast.

Upon this realization, I promptly contacted my friends in Ecuador, and Esteban confirmed that his beloved dog was indeed missing. He found it profoundly perplexing that there was such a global fervor over a dog merely accompanying a trekking team, as this was simply Barbuncho’s customary behavior. Barbuncho frequently followed others through the jungle—often foreign volunteers, sometimes even Swedish ones, much like myself—but he invariably returned “home” to the main village. With its expansive rainforest, breathtaking waterfalls, arduous mud trails, and abundant wildlife, this entire region was Barbuncho’s personal playground. Those of us who knew him understood he would join anyone embarking on the most audacious escapades, be it a team of tropical biologists meticulously studying the reserve’s fauna, medical volunteers conducting vital health campaigns, or even Esteban himself during his hunts for paca or agouti. Barbuncho also enjoyed multiple “homes,” much like his owner, dividing his time between a biological station, Esteban’s farm, and a modest house within a densely populated village. If Esteban departed from one of these locations and Barbuncho chose not to follow, other family members or friends would readily step in to feed him and ensure his well-being. This robust communal safety net, which extended its support to animals, children, and the elderly alike, stands as one of the qualities I most deeply admired about this particular community. To those of us intimately familiar with the dog, Barbuncho cherished his freedom, even if it often meant a little mess and unpredictability, very different from the controlled environment of a dog show mystery.

The Battle for Truth: Challenging the Dominant Story

As soon as Esteban confirmed the dog was Barbuncho, he urged me to contact Mikael Lindnord to inform him that the dog he was preparing to fly across the world actually belonged to someone else. My Ecuadorian friends all shared the same bewilderment: why had Lindnord never thought to ask whose dog it was? Everyone in the community knew Barbuncho. Esteban had been at his farm, without electricity or internet access, and was initially unaware of the unfolding global narrative. He worried about the language barrier, not speaking English or Swedish (both languages I happen to be fluent in), and lacked social media on his phone at the time, communicating with me solely via WhatsApp. While I acknowledge that Lindnord was likely surprised and perhaps concerned by my Facebook messages, especially given the extensive press coverage he had already garnered, he quickly raised concerns about animal abuse, even insinuating my potential complicity. My attempts to explain rural life, the realities of poverty, or culturally distinct standards of pet-keeping were met with ridicule and detailed descriptions of Barbuncho’s back wound (the result of a tussle with another animal), his poor teeth, and his parasites. When I relayed these accusations to my friends in Ecuador, they simply laughed, retorting, “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, striving to correct the published narrative, but my efforts were uniformly rejected. Admittedly, I expressed my frustration quite vocally on social media, only to be dismissed by many as an animal abuser or, at best, an agua fiesta (a buzzkill). I had anticipated that my perspective would be unpopular, but I was unprepared for how utterly unbelievable it seemed to many. Most striking were those who readily acknowledged the unfair villainization of impoverished rural people of color on Ecuador’s coast and the blatant disregard for their lives and truths, yet ultimately expressed indifference because it was simply “such a great story.” It appeared inconsequential that this narrative of possession was fundamentally enabled by a longer history of dispossession, a core mechanism of settler colonialism. In the end, Barbuncho successfully made his way to Sweden, amidst considerable fanfare, where Lindnord dedicated himself to establishing a home for him and launching a thriving career built upon this serendipitous event a decade ago. Coinciding with the film’s premiere in late February 2024, Lindnord also announced the release of a children’s book in four languages: Young Arthur, which presumably recounts for children the supposed trials and tribulations of Arthur’s early jungle life before his encounter with Lindnord. This idealized framing often mirrors the perspective found in a dog’s perspective book.

Deconstructing the “Heroic Rescue”: Colonial Tropes and Self-Deception

The numerous inconsistencies embedded within the evolving Arthur narratives are remarkably telling. They not only underscore the pervasive need for hyperbolic representations to transform a story into captivating Hollywood material, but also expose the deeply distorted lens through which the Global North frequently perceives the Global South. For instance, Lindnord’s consistent assertion that the dog was on the brink of death, despite Barbuncho’s demonstrable ability to endure and follow his team through extraordinarily challenging terrain for days, subtly reinforces a subconscious narrative of deprivation and suffering—a stereotype frequently associated with the Global South. This narrative is further amplified when Lindnord paints the entire region with a broad brush, depicting rural life as inherently lacking in 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, Lindnord expands the scope of his initial “rescue” to encompass an entire culture: “Saving” is not merely directed at the dog supposedly riddled with “all the diseases,” but extends to “saving” all the “Arthurs” of the world from unkind “natives” everywhere. Under the purported auspices of The Arthur Foundation, which now appears inactive, Lindnord advocated for a carceral response—calling for stricter punishment for animal abuse and mistreatment in Ecuador, and encouraging the implementation of similar laws globally. In the Global North, ideal pet-keeping is often dictated by law; an animal’s well-being is ostensibly guaranteed by stable homes with fenced yards, regular medical oversight, and controlled environments like enclosed quarantines and doggie daycares (Barbuncho, upon leaving Ecuador, spent his first four months in Sweden in quarantine). Such simplified narratives often resemble those found in stories for dogs.

However, Lindnord is not the sole individual seemingly caught in this web of hyperbole and colonial tropes. The publishing industry and Hollywood seamlessly follow suit. Barbuncho’s actual 30-mile journey (as the crow flies) is conveniently conflated with the team’s full expedition, which is reported as occurring “over the course of ten days and 435 miles”. Or, as Mark Wahlberg recently stated 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 even lists Brazil and the Amazon River Region as keywords. In various videos, Lindnord references being observed by “Indians” in the Amazon and borrowing their “Inca canoes”—despite the fact that Ecuador’s coast is neither Amazonian nor geographically close to any Inca civilization. Furthermore, the movie, originally planned for Puerto Rico, was eventually filmed in the Dominican Republic. An outcry among Ecuadorians regarding the film’s setting and production location in the Dominican Republic prompted a (dubious) explanation on social media, with Lindnord attributing the choice to the necessity of COVID protocols during filming. I would argue, however, that a deliberate geographical distance from Barbuncho’s actual home and the specific details of his life was crucial to sustain the deception inherent in presenting it as “the true story,” and perhaps also to offer legal protection. The obfuscation of place serves to underline the idea that what truly matters is that the backdrop is tropical, wild, and supposedly indicative of a place inhabited by “Natives” who lack “civilized” customs of animal care. Ultimately, the ambiguity of the context is fundamental; rural people (or “Natives”) in Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, or Puerto Rico function merely as a convenient foil against which the Global North can trumpet its own heroics and successes.

Even Ecuadorians themselves are not entirely immune to these troubling colonial stereotypes. When Esteban was eventually located by the Ecuadorian press and publicly acknowledged his ownership of Barbuncho, it triggered national petitions advocating for his imprisonment. These petitions gained considerable momentum, primarily among urban elites from Quito and animal rights networks, providing a public stage for the social media backlash directed at the entire rural interior. Barbuncho’s physical health—and the immediate, unquestioning acceptance that his health status was a result of choice rather than the structural conditions shared by his community—came to powerfully symbolize a more generalized anxiety: that rural and coastal Afro-Ecuadorians and mestizos were somehow “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, simultaneously castigating Esteban as a national embarrassment and apologizing for their “less-cultured” country folk. Primitive representations were thus exchanged for savage ones; Esteban and those like him became implicitly branded as backward, barbaric, and abusive. The widespread appeal of Arthur’s story, much like books like A Dog’s Purpose, taps into these emotional reservoirs.

Unmasking “Doggie Desires” and Colonial “Common Sense”

In exchange for a degree of self-deception, we are rewarded with the heartwarming celebration of loyalty and friendship between humans and dogs, particularly when the narrative involves a canine so utterly determined to remain with its “best friend.” Furthermore, in a world saturated with difficult news cycles and polarizing debates, we feel we deserve to embrace narratives that simply “feel good.” Dogs, in this context, become the perfect objects of salvation, allowing us to project our own desires (and what we imagine to be theirs) for uncomplicated companionship and loving relationships amidst the formidable challenges of late capitalism. Interestingly, Lindnord and his enthusiastic supporters often counter any skepticism about the story by emphatically asserting that he didn’t choose the dog; rather, “the dog chose us.” This statement is often presented as the definitive end to any debate. However, when asked what he would do if contacted by the dog’s original owner, Lindnord insists, “I have microchipped Arthur. I am his owner.” This contradictory stance reveals the underlying tensions in the narrative of mutual choice versus explicit ownership.

In its many deceptions, this “incredible true story” unveils a more profound truth. The narrative wields such immense force not just because of the delightful reward of a loyal dog and feel-good heroics. The legend of Arthur remained almost entirely unquestioned because it is built upon a deeper, even more incredible truth: a racist and colonial “common sense.” Within this ingrained logic, rural backwardness and tropical savagery are perceived to justify and amplify the North’s civility and its inherent claim to property. These pervasive stereotypes do more than merely misinform; they deeply entrench harmful, savior-type ideologies that, in turn, validate the North’s interference in the affairs of the Global South. In stories such as these, rural populations are systematically denied agency, often cast as villains, and their lives are grossly oversimplified, deliberately ignoring the intricate complexities and structural roots of their lived experiences. Ultimately, it is the heroism and the conquest that we are truly eager to witness, not the continuous extraction and dispossession that fundamentally enable it all. It is, in essence, an age-old story. In the late capitalist Hollywood rendition, every “important” and visible figure stands to benefit: Lindnord, the dog, the film producers and cast, and the vast community of dog lovers across the world. The ultimate deceit, however, lies in the fact that this seemingly triumphant win-win success story fundamentally relies on the moral and political disenfranchisement of Barbuncho’s people—his true home, his family, and his entire community.

References

Jonh Luke

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *