Otis, a Saint Bernard of considerable girth and questionable motivation, had always been a bit of an oddball. His idea of a good time was lounging on the porch, drooling on the furniture, and watching the world go by with a look of profound indifference. He was a dog who had mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing with a level of dedication that would put a Zen monk to shame.

One day, a pack of hunting dogs moved into the neighborhood. They were lean, mean, and had a look in their eyes that suggested they had seen things. Things like squirrels, rabbits, and the occasional mailman. They were the kind of dogs who would chase a tennis ball into oncoming traffic without a second thought. In short, they were everything Otis was not.

Otis watched them from his porch, his drool forming a small puddle on the wooden floor. He watched as they ran, jumped, and barked with a kind of wild abandon that he found both terrifying and oddly fascinating. And then, in a moment of what can only be described as canine insanity, Otis decided to join them.

The hunting dogs were initially skeptical. Otis, with his droopy eyes and slow, lumbering gait, didn’t exactly scream “hunting dog.” But Otis was nothing if not persistent. He followed them around, mimicking their movements, and trying his best to fit in. It was like watching a walrus trying to keep up with a pack of cheetahs.

The hunting dogs, for their part, were surprisingly patient. They waited for Otis when he lagged behind, they helped him up when he tripped over his own feet, and they even shared their food with him. It was a strange sight to behold, this mismatched pack of dogs, but there was something oddly touching about it.

But then came the day of the big hunt. The dogs were on the trail of a particularly elusive squirrel, and Otis was struggling to keep up. He was panting heavily, his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a wet dishrag. The hunting dogs, sensing his distress, slowed down and waited for him.

Otis, however, had other plans. With a look of determination in his eyes, he pushed himself to his feet and lumbered forward. He was slow, he was clumsy, but he was also incredibly brave. He was a Saint Bernard on a mission, and nothing was going to stop him.

The hunting dogs watched in awe as Otis, against all odds, managed to corner the squirrel. He didn’t catch it, of course. The squirrel scampered up a tree, chattering angrily at Otis from a safe distance. But that didn’t matter. Otis had proven himself. He had shown that he was more than just a lazy, drooling porch dog. He was a hunting dog, dammit.

From that day forward, Otis was a part of the pack. He still spent most of his time on the porch, drooling on the furniture and watching the world go by. But every now and then, he would join the hunting dogs on their adventures. And they, in turn, would wait for him, help him up when he tripped, and share their food with him.

Because that’s what friends do. They stick together, through thick and thin, through squirrels and mailmen. They are loyal to each other, no matter what. And Otis, the Saint Bernard who thought he was a hunting dog, was the most loyal of them all.