In the quiet mountain town of Tesero, Italy, just steps from the bustling Lago di Tesero Cross-Country Skiing Stadium during the Milano Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics, a two-year-old Czechoslovakian wolfdog named Nazgul became an unexpected global sensation. What started as a family’s ordinary morning routine—locking their energetic pet in his kennel before heading out to watch biathlon events—spiraled into hours of panic, guilt, and desperate searching. Then, in the most improbable twist imaginable, Nazgul burst onto live television during the women’s cross-country skiing team sprint qualifiers on February 18, 2026, sprinting down the finishing straight alongside elite athletes and crossing the line in an unsanctioned bid for glory.
Nazgul’s owners, Alice Varesco—a former Olympic skier turned trade marketing professional—and her partner Ernesto, left their home confident their clever wolfdog was secure. The breed, known for its intelligence, independence, and wolf-like instincts, had shown Houdini-level escape skills before, but the reinforced kennel and closed front door seemed foolproof. The couple departed for Anterselva to cheer on biathletes, leaving Nazgul behind. Unbeknownst to them, the determined pup had other plans. He somehow unlocked his kennel, maneuvered the front door open—perhaps using his powerful jaws or paws on the handle—and slipped out into the snowy world.
Drawn by the distant sounds of crowds, skis slicing snow, and the energy of competition, Nazgul trotted toward the Olympic venue. The cross-country course, groomed to perfection and lined with barriers, proved no match for his agility. He slipped through a gap or under fencing—details officials are still piecing together—and emerged onto the track just as competitors powered toward the homestretch in the women’s team sprint free qualification. Cameras captured the surreal sight: a silver-grey wolfdog bounding alongside Croatian and Greek skiers, tail wagging, ears perked, seemingly thrilled by the chase. He matched their stride for stride, crossed the finish line in what photo-finish images jokingly dubbed “20th place,” and even paused to greet confused athletes catching their breath.
The arena—and living rooms worldwide—erupted. Commentators laughed in disbelief: “Is that a wolf? No, it’s a dog!” Broadcasters zoomed in as race officials gently collared Nazgul and led him off the course. No athletes were harmed, no times affected, but the moment instantly went viral. Clips flooded social media, with captions like “Nazgul for gold!” and “The real MVP of the Olympics.” Fans dubbed him the “furry Olympian,” praising his speed and spirit. One NBC post declared: “Nazgul started the day as just another Italian dog. He’ll end it as a #WinterOlympics legend.”
Back home, Alice and Ernesto were oblivious until friends bombarded them with videos. On the train returning from biathlon, their phones lit up with messages: “Is this your dog?” Heart pounding, they watched in horror and relief as Nazgul sprinted across their screens. “I thought we’d lost him forever,” Alice later recounted, her voice cracking. “We panicked—guilt, fear, everything. How did he get out? Was he safe? Then seeing him on live TV… the roar of the crowd, the disbelief turning to tears.” The family rushed back to Tesero, where officials had already returned Nazgul unharmed to a nearby bed-and-breakfast (his temporary home during the Games, as the family manages one there). He was wagging his tail, none the worse for wear, perhaps proud of his adventure.
The escape highlighted Nazgul’s breed traits: Czechoslovakian wolfdogs are highly intelligent, athletic hybrids bred for endurance and problem-solving. Owners often describe them as escape artists who thrive on stimulation. Alice noted Nazgul’s curiosity had led to previous minor escapades, but nothing like this. “He’s fast, smart, and drawn to movement,” she said. “The Olympics noise must have been irresistible.” The incident raised light-hearted questions about venue security—how did a dog breach barriers?—but officials emphasized no serious breach occurred, and Nazgul was quickly contained.
Behind the viral laughter lay real emotion. For hours, the Varescos imagined worst-case scenarios: traffic, cold exposure, or getting lost in the mountains. The guilt of leaving him alone, even briefly, weighed heavy. Seeing him safe on TV transformed fear into overwhelming joy. “The tears were relief, love, and a bit of ‘how is this our life?'” Alice shared. Friends and family gathered, replaying clips, laughing through tears. Social media amplified the warmth: thousands shared stories of their own pets’ escapes, calling Nazgul’s moment “wholesome chaos” and “the best Olympic story.”
Nazgul’s brief stardom brought unexpected perks. He appeared in official photo-finish shots, memes flooded platforms, and fans joked about a “canine gold medal” or Westminster entry. The family received messages from around the world, many praising the breed’s beauty and spirit. Alice and Ernesto now double-check locks, but they cherish the memory. “He didn’t win a medal,” Alice said, “but he won hearts—and reminded us how love races faster than any spotlight.”
In a Games filled with athletic triumphs and personal stories, Nazgul’s adventure stood out for its purity. No training, no pressure—just a dog following instinct, joyfully joining the world’s biggest stage. As the family reunited, hugs tight and treats plentiful, the roar of the Olympic crowd echoed not just through the stadium, but through their living room. What began in panic ended in gratitude: their clever escape artist was home safe, forever an Olympic legend in fur.
