The U&W studio lights flickered to life on a crisp October evening in 2025, but nothing could prepare the nation for the emotional haymaker that was the Season 2 premiere of Pete Wicks: For Dogs’ Sake. At 8 p.m. sharp, as the clock struck prime time, Pete Wicks—tattooed bad boy of TOWIE fame, the bloke who once embodied Essex excess with a trail of tabloid heartbreaks and nightclub brawls—strode onto screen in mud-splattered wellies, a rescue pup tucked under one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. No gelled quiff, no designer shades. Just raw, unfiltered Pete, eyes misty, voice cracking as he whispered to a shivering terrier named Baxter, “You’re safe now, mate. We’ve got you.”
Viewers across the UK—7.2 million of them, shattering channel records—leaned into their sofas, tissues at the ready. This wasn’t the Pete they knew from The Only Way Is Essex, where he’d been the perpetual playboy, cycling through romances like outfit changes. This was redemption incarnate, a full-circle triumph that had social media exploding with one question: “Is this the new Paul O’Grady?” By the credits, #PeteForPaul was trending, fans flooding X with pleas: “ITV, wake up! Sack Alison and give the gig to Pete!” But rewind the tape on Pete’s untold journey, and you’ll see this wasn’t luck. It was a gritty, gut-wrenching climb from rock bottom to rescue royalty.
It started in the shadows of 2023, a year that nearly broke him. Pete, then 35, was nursing a hangover of the soul. His TOWIE exit had left him adrift—typecast as the tattooed heartbreaker, the guy whose podcast Staying Relevant (co-hosted with best mate Sam Thompson) was more therapy session than hit. Romances? A carousel of chaos: Sam Faiers, Megan McKenna, Maisie Smith—each ending in headlines that painted him as the villain. “I was lost,” he’d later confess in a raw It Takes Two interview, fingers tracing the ink on his knuckles: Stay Strong. “Parties were my escape, but they were killing me inside. I’d wake up alone, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d ever be more than the punchline.”
Enter the dogs. Not metaphorically—literally. It was a rainy afternoon in Basildon, Essex, when Pete, dodging paparazzi after a Celebrity SAS: Who Dares Wins stint that left him bruised and brooding, wandered into the Dogs Trust rehoming centre. He’d always been a softie for strays; his late nan’s Jack Russell, Reggie, had been his childhood anchor. But this? A kennel full of wide-eyed rescues—abandoned pups, battered hounds, the forgotten—hit like a thunderbolt. “One look at this little Staffie with the broken tail,” Pete recalled, voice thick in the premiere’s voiceover, “and something cracked. I wasn’t saving her. She was saving me.”
That chance visit snowballed into obsession. Pete started volunteering incognito: mucking out pens at dawn, walking miles with leashes in hand, whispering pep talks to the unadoptables. He traded Soho nights for shelter shifts, his Instagram shifting from gym selfies to gritty reels of muddy paws and wagging tails. “These dogs don’t judge your past,” he posted once, a candid shot of him cradling a scarred greyhound. “They just see who you could be.” Fans noticed. Comments poured in: “Pete, you’re glowing.” “This is the real you.” But the real pivot? A late-night call from BBC Studios execs, scouting for a fresh face to front a dog docuseries. “We saw your posts,” the producer said. “You’ve got Paul’s heart. Fancy giving it a go?”
Paul O’Grady. The name alone conjured legends: the Lily Savage drag icon turned Battersea savior, whose For the Love of Dogs had mended more hearts than any rom-com. Paul’s passing in March 2023 had left a void—a camp, compassionate chasm that Alison Hammond’s bubbly take on the ITV revival couldn’t quite fill. Fans griped: “Alison’s lovely, but where’s the slobber? The sobs?” Pete? He was the wildcard no one saw coming. Auditions were a blur: him in a test kennel, rolling on the floor with a pack of rescues, tears streaming as he bottle-fed an orphaned pup. “He’s got it,” the commissioners whispered. “That O’Grady magic—raw, real, ridiculous.”
Season 1 dropped in January 2025, a modest four-parter that punched way above its weight. Filmed at Basildon Dogs Trust, it followed Pete’s “mission,” as he called it: rehabbing the rehabbed, from a traumatized collie named Ruby (hoarding food after years on the streets) to a boisterous bulldog, Winston, who’d been surrendered for “being too much.” Episodes were equal parts heartbreak and hilarity—Pete’s Essex drawl cracking jokes mid-meltdown (“Oi, Winston, you’re not humping my leg on national telly!”), his tough-guy facade crumbling into ugly cries when adoptions sealed. Viewers lapped it up: U&W’s highest unscripted premiere since 2016, topping the charts for weeks. Apply-to-Adopt inquiries at Dogs Trust spiked 40%, footfall surged, and Paul’s old fans? They anointed Pete heir apparent. “He’s the successor we needed,” one X thread raved, 20k likes deep. “Paul would’ve adopted him on sight.”
But Season 2? That’s where the stunned silence turned to standing ovations. Airing October 29—timed, insiders say, to ride Strictly’s wave (Pete’s 2024 jive still fresh in minds)—it opened with a gut-punch montage: Pete’s “before” clips from TOWIE, all swagger and smirks, dissolving into “now,” sleeves rolled, scars bared (literal and not). The surprise twist? A Paul O’Grady tribute episode, unearthed footage from Battersea archives interwoven with Pete’s visits to the same sites. “Paul showed me the way,” Pete said, on-location at a windswept Liverpool dock where Paul once filmed. “He turned pain into purpose. I’m just trying to wag the tail he left behind.”
The episode that broke the internet? Number three: “The Underdog’s Oath.” Pete met Angel, a three-legged mongrel dumped in a cardboard box, her eyes hollow with betrayal. Cameras rolled as Pete knelt in the rain, coaxing her out with whispers and treats. “You think you’re broken? Mate, I’ve got a whole autobiography of that,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the downpour. What followed was pure alchemy: weeks of patient playdates, Pete canceling a podcast tour to camp out in the kennel, teaching Angel trust one fetch at a time. The adoption reveal— to a young lad in a wheelchair, matching Angel’s “scrappy survivor” vibe—had Pete sobbing into the kid’s shoulder. “She chose you, champ. Just like someone chose me when I was a mess.”
The backlash? Minimal. Sure, a few TOWIE purists sniped, “Stick to the drama, not the drool.” But the tide turned tidal. Sam Thompson, Pete’s ride-or-die, crashed the finale set with a surprise cameo— the I’m A Celeb champ in a dog onesie, leading a conga of rescues. “My boy’s the real deal,” Sam beamed in a post-credits reel. Celeb endorsements flooded: Olly Murs (“Pete’s got Paul’s paws—paws up for S3!”), even Alison Hammond herself, gracious in defeat: “Watched every ep, hun. You’re smashing it. Room for two dog mums on telly?” And the fans? A petition for Pete to helm For the Love of Dogs hit 150k signatures overnight. “He’s the underdog who won,” one viral tweet read. “Paul’s smiling from the stars.”
By the season’s emotional crescendo—a Christmas special tease with Pete fostering a litter of Paul-named pups (Savage, Lily, and Everett)—U&W greenlit Series 3 on the spot. Commissioners gushed: “Pete’s not just hosting. He’s healing.” Rehoming rates soared; one episode’s featured pooch, a lanky lurcher called redemption incarnate, got snapped up mid-airing. Pete, ever humble, shrugged it off in his wrap-up interview: “I was the lad who couldn’t commit to a coffee date. Now? I’m committed to these mutts for life. Paul taught us: love the broken bits. They wag the hardest.”
As the end credits rolled—set to a haunting cover of Paul’s “Lily Savage” theme, Pete walking a sunset shore with his own rescue, Peggy—viewers didn’t just watch. They witnessed. A bad boy’s glow-up, from tabloid fodder to tail-wagging icon. The stunned silence? It was awe. The tears? Catharsis. Pete Wicks wasn’t just succeeding Paul O’Grady. He was channeling him—proving underdogs don’t just bite back. They fetch the future.
Season 2 didn’t end For Dogs’ Sake. It unleashed a legacy. And if ITV’s smart? They’ll collar Pete before the kennel’s empty.
