From Rescue to Rise: How Budweiser’s 2015 and 2026 Super Bowl Ads Tell Two Chapters of the Same Story
Budweiser’s Clydesdales have spent decades doing something most brands can’t pull off: they make a beer logo feel like a family crest. The horses aren’t just mascots; they’re emotional shorthand for tradition, steadiness, and a kind of old-fashioned decency that plays well on the biggest, loudest broadcast night of the year. That’s why the 2015 and 2026 Super Bowl spots hit like companion pieces even though their plots are completely different. Both ads use the Clydesdales as moving monuments—huge bodies, gentle eyes, calm authority—but they deploy that authority in two distinct moral directions. One is rescue as reunion. The other is rescue as instinct, an act that happens before anyone even knows they need saving.
The 2015 ad, “Lost Dog,” arrives in the middle of Budweiser’s puppy-era run, and it wears that context proudly. It’s built like a classic fable: a small, lovable creature gets separated from safety, wanders into a world that’s too big, and faces a threat that’s primal and immediate. The wolf moment is the hinge, because it turns the story from “lost” into “in danger,” and the reaction from the Clydesdales becomes the emotional thesis. They don’t hesitate. They don’t look to the human for permission. They simply step in, shoulder to shoulder, like a living wall. The power dynamic is unmistakable: the strongest thing in the frame chooses to protect the weakest thing in the frame, and it does it without needing applause.
The music choice in 2015 is part of why it still works years later. The cover of “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” plays like a promise instead of a punchline, turning a familiar pop hook into something homespun and sweet. That’s a very specific kind of Super Bowl alchemy: take a song everyone recognizes and reintroduce it as a lullaby for grown-ups. In “Lost Dog,” the melody isn’t there to energize; it’s there to soften the edges, to make the threat feel survivable because love is close behind it. The ad also leans hard into tactile imagery—rain, mud, fences, breath in cold air—so that the puppy’s vulnerability feels physical rather than symbolic. When the dog makes it back, it doesn’t read like a plot twist; it reads like relief.
Now jump to 2026, and the tonal engine is different from the first frame. “American Icons” is less “storybook rescue” and more “mythic montage.” It’s built to feel generational, like an American scrapbook flipping by at cinematic speed: a foal, seasons turning, a friendship forming, a transformation that implies years even when it’s shown in seconds. Where “Lost Dog” uses danger as a spike, “American Icons” uses tenderness as a throughline. The threat isn’t a literal predator; the threat is fragility itself—smallness in a world of wind, weather, gravity, and time. And instead of waiting until the weak one is already lost, the younger horse steps forward early, lowering its body in a protective gesture that feels both naive and noble.
The symmetry between the two ads becomes clearer when the Clydesdales’ role is compared scene by scene. In 2015, the horses are guardians who appear at the critical moment, like a cavalry charge made of muscle and kindness. In 2026, the protection isn’t a late arrival; it’s the foundation of the relationship. The foal’s first act of courage is also its first act of caretaking, and that flips the emotional angle. “Lost Dog” is about being found and brought back. “American Icons” is about being seen before you’re lost. It suggests a different kind of strength—less reactive, more intentional—strength that doesn’t just block danger but builds a sheltered space where danger has less power to begin with.
“American Icons” also carries the weight of anniversary storytelling, and that matters because Budweiser isn’t merely selling a product in 2026—it’s selling continuity. The ad is framed like a tribute: to the brand’s age, to agricultural labor, to iconic American symbolism, to the Clydesdales themselves as living heritage. That’s why the eagle lands with such force. The bald eagle is more than a cute animal co-star; it’s a national emblem, which turns the horse-and-bird pairing into a visual metaphor that’s almost too obvious and yet still effective. When the eagle finally takes flight at the end, the image reads like a payoff not only for the characters’ arc, but for the idea that tradition can still lift something new into the air.
That final beat is also where the “different lessons” feeling becomes undeniable. In “Lost Dog,” the climax is a rescue and a return: safety is the destination. In “American Icons,” the climax is a launch: safety is the runway. The leap-and-flight moment doesn’t just say “you’re protected,” it says “you’re ready.” It’s subtle, but it changes the emotional aftertaste. The 2015 ad leaves warmth and comfort, a sense that the world can be scary but the herd will find you. The 2026 ad leaves uplift, a sense that the herd doesn’t only guard the fragile—it helps the fragile become something that can move on its own. That’s an evolution from loyalty as shelter to loyalty as empowerment.
Both spots also share a quiet technical trick: they make enormous animals feel intimate. The camera lingers on eyes, breath, small shifts in posture, and the softness of muzzles, treating a thousand-pound body like a character with interiority. That’s harder than it sounds. Horses can look blank on camera if they’re shot like props. Budweiser’s best work avoids that by filming the animals as if they’re people who don’t speak—letting the audience infer emotion from movement and proximity. “Lost Dog” uses the herd’s formation to communicate resolve. “American Icons” uses the foal’s body language—lowering, nudging, standing still beside the chick—to communicate choice. In both cases, the storytelling is wordless, and the lack of dialogue makes the symbolism feel cleaner.
The deeper connection between 2015 and 2026 is that both ads treat protection as identity, not just action. The Clydesdales aren’t heroic because they do one heroic thing; they’re heroic because they are the kind of presence that makes bravery look natural. In 2015, that presence is experienced by someone already separated from home. In 2026, that presence becomes home itself, created by the act of showing up early and staying close. That’s why the comparison feels so satisfying: it’s not repetition; it’s a thematic sequel. One chapter tells the story of getting back to safety. The next chapter tells the story of becoming the safety that someone else can grow inside.
Even the pacing helps underline that “two chapters” idea. “Lost Dog” is a short sprint with a dramatic spike: the puppy’s wandering, the wolf, the rescue, the reunion. “American Icons” is built like a long inhale and a long exhale: a series of small moments accumulating until a single image lands as a symbol of what those moments meant. That structural shift mirrors the moral shift. A rescue story often needs a villain or a threat to justify the save. A coming-of-age story doesn’t; it needs time, patience, and a reason to believe that the quiet work mattered. The 2026 ad makes the argument that caretaking isn’t only about emergencies—it’s about the daily accumulation of trust that eventually produces flight.
Once those two 2026 versions are seen side by side, the broader Budweiser Clydesdales universe starts to look less like a pile of standalone commercials and more like an anthology about belonging. That’s where the 2015 spot becomes essential to the comparison, because it crystallized the formula: a small creature, a big world, and a gentle giant that refuses to let fear have the last word. “Lost Dog” also strengthened Budweiser’s ability to make “cute” feel serious without turning saccharine. The wolf scene is the key proof that the ad is willing to risk tension; it earns the tears by flirting with danger. That choice differentiates it from a purely sentimental animal friendship vignette. It’s not just adorable; it’s protective love with teeth at the edge of the frame.
Watch the 2014 “Puppy Love” era and the connective tissue becomes even more obvious. That ad is reunion-forward in a different way: it’s about a friendship that persists across distance, the kind of bond that doesn’t accept the new reality as permanent. When it’s placed near “Lost Dog,” it reads like the emotional prequel—less peril, more yearning, but still obsessed with the idea that home is not only a place; it’s the feeling of being recognized. That’s why the 2026 “American Icons” pivot lands: it takes the reunion theme and transforms it into creation. Instead of “we will find you and bring you back,” it becomes “we will stand with you until you can become what you’re meant to be.” The tone matures from longing to legacy.
Go back another year to 2013’s “Brotherhood,” and the Clydesdales’ emotional branding becomes even clearer: Budweiser keeps returning to bonds that outlast circumstance. That spot isn’t about a small animal at all; it’s about a relationship between a horse and a handler, and the reunion hits because it frames care as labor, not just affection. The trainer raised the horse, then watched it leave, then sees it again with the full ceremonial grandeur of the Budweiser team. That’s important in the 2015-versus-2026 comparison because it shows the brand’s long-running interest in caretaking as the origin story. The horses are icons, but the ads keep insisting that icons are made through patient stewardship, not born fully formed.
By the time 2025’s “First Delivery” arrived, Budweiser had already started threading a youthful “learning the role” theme into the Clydesdales mythology, and that sets the stage for 2026 beautifully. A younger horse trying to keep up, trying to contribute, trying to earn a place in the tradition—those beats are the emotional stepping stones that make “American Icons” feel like a culmination rather than a random pivot. The 2015 puppy is saved. The 2025 foal proves itself. The 2026 colt becomes a protector. That arc reads like growth, not recycling. It’s essentially Budweiser using animal storytelling the way sports films use rookies and veterans: the point isn’t just the win, it’s the transformation into someone worthy of carrying the symbol forward.
The real payoff of comparing 2015 and 2026 is recognizing how carefully Budweiser has expanded its definition of strength. In “Lost Dog,” strength looks like intervention—big bodies stepping between a threat and a vulnerable friend. In “American Icons,” strength looks like initiative—choosing care before the threat can even announce itself. Both are emotional, but they press different buttons. One reassures. The other inspires. And the fact that the Clydesdales can carry both messages without feeling out of character is why the brand’s animal ads have outlasted so many celebrity-driven Super Bowl trends. The horses function like an American folk symbol: familiar enough to trust, expressive enough to evolve, and cinematic enough to make a 60-second spot feel like a short film that people talk about long after the game ends.
