Oh, hello.

I’m sure some of you are worried about my predicament: me underwater without a breathing apparatus, these bottlenose dolphins (Tursiops truncati) circling in a menacing fashion.

Fear not, citizens. All is not as it seems. After I fended off the males’ initial attempts at gang rape, I’ve slowly gained acceptance into the pod. Not that it hasn’t been difficult at times: I’m not the best swimmer to begin with, and this football equipment has only exacerbated my clumsy navigation of Poseidon’s kingdom. Unlike my new friends (I’d tell you their names, but the series of clicks doesn’t translate well to our primitive language), I need to breathe more frequently than every 5-8 minutes. And have you ever tried letting one half of your brain sleep while the other operates your active body? You can’t learn that overnight.

But things are progressing. My sonar is practically fluent. The saltwater stopped bothering my eyes thanks to the development of a nictitating membrane under my eyelids (somebody tell Coach Dungy I prayed for it — he’ll handle the news better that way). And I’ve found that few terrestrial meals are as satisfying as tearing through a school of Atlantic herring cruising through the Gulf Stream.

I’m sure my quiet leadership and precision out-patterns are missed in Indianapolis, but I really feel at home here. Besides, my connection to the pod may prove to be a key alliance for the Colts. I’ve heard squeakings that Belichick’s got some friends down here, too…