Din Din for Butch
“I wanted to film this not because I hate rabbits (I don’t)”
I went to the USC film school as an undergraduate. My first assignment was to make a short film with the theme of caring. I decided I would film my good friend from high school, Justin, feeding a live rabbit to his beloved pet python, Butch. Justin cared a great deal about Butch. They were very close. As close as a man could be to a python measuring over seven feet in length and weighing over a hundred pounds. Justin and Butch even slept together at night. Nothing perverted. Justin slept in the bed with Butch for security. Butch kept him safe, except for the few times when Butch was feeling cranky and he would bite Justin’s arms and hands hard enough to draw blood. But Butch never attempted to suffocate Justin because they were friends. Friends don’t suffocate friends. I hoped to capture their bond in my short film by showing how Justin lovingly provided food for Butch.
I wanted to film this not because I hate rabbits (I don't), but because I wanted my short film to be unique, memorable. I figured most of the other films would be something along the lines of a father and son playing catch or a grandmother and granddaughter baking a cake. I wanted my film to stand out. So I called Justin and asked him if he thought Butch might be interested in acting again. I had worked with Justin and Butch before, in high school during the production of my adaption of Don Quixote for Mr. Hanson’s senior English class. Instead of writing a book report, I shot an adaption of the book – a feature length adaptation shot on a VHS camcorder. I played the part of Mr. Quixote.
In my search for Dulcinea as Don Quixote, I encountered Justin and Butch in the countryside. Justin had long, red hair. Since Don Quixote often saw things differently, in the film I mistook Justin for a woman on account of his long hair. As Don Quixote, I offered this “woman” some friendly advice, suggesting “she” should wear dresses more often and not hang out with pythons as much – that way a charming suitor might be more likely to show interest. While we had this conversation, Butch calmly slid over to me, climbed up to my shoulders and methodically wrapped himself around my neck. That is what was supposed to happen.
Butch wasn’t very interested in wrapping himself around me. It took several attempts. Each time, Butch would slither off of me. Each time, Justin would place him back on my shoulders and remind me not to be afraid because Butch would sense the fear and then he would try to kill me. We finally got him to wrap himself around me for a few seconds and in the final version of Don Quixote, Butch is the Dustin Hoffman of pythons. No other python could have done a better job – not even the snake that goes after Jennifer Lopez in Anaconda (Columbia Pictures, 1997. Jennifer Lopez, Eric Stoltz, Ice Cube).
Justin was excited about the prospect of helping me with another film and said Butch would be too. Filming Butch eat a live rabbit would not be easy for me. I like all living creatures. If I find a silverfish in the bathtub, I will delicately capture it with some tissue paper and throw it off the balcony into a whole new world of adventure and opportunity. But Butch was going to eat a rabbit, whether I was there or not. If Butch didn't eat a rabbit, Butch would die. That's the system – there’s no suggestion box. (If there was, I would suggest everybody get their nourishment from air. If we could take a bite out of the air and eat it like cotton candy that would be great. Thanks.)
When I arrived at Justin’s house in San Diego, Justin told me had some bad news. His rabbit supplier, some mysterious woman who lived in the hills, ran out of rabbits. Suddenly we had to find a rabbit. We had to find one that weekend because my short film was due the following week. Plus, Butch was hungry. He hadn't eaten in a month. We called around to the local pet stores but, amazingly, none of them had any rabbits. Finally, the newspaper caught my eye. It was the local paper, The Daily Californian. Every Friday, on the front page of The Daily Californian, pictured in the bottom right hand corner, was The Pet of the Week. Usually it was a cat or a dog in need of a home. On this particular Friday, The Pet of the Week was Benjamin the Bunny.
Justin was excited because we finally found dinner for Butch. He wanted to race down to the animal shelter and grab the rabbit before anyone else. I suggested I go there alone. As pleased as Justin was that a rabbit, or rodent as he liked to call them, had been located, in all likelihood, the animal shelter would not have handed Benjamin over to him – given his long red hair, his intimidating muscles (from carrying Butch around all the time) and his combat boots. If he walked in there and said, “I’m here for the bunny,” they probably would have called the authorities.
I felt bad as I sat across from a sweet little librarian looking lady at the animal shelter who interviewed me. She wanted to make sure I was going to give Benjamin a good home, asking such pertinent questions as, "You'll be sure to feed Benjamin, won't you?"
I assured her, "I will definitely feed Benjamin." The sweet little librarian lady handed Benjamin over to me, and when she did, I felt like a monster. Benjamin the Bunny, with gray fur, doe eyes and a gentle, trusting temperament, had no fear of me. He happily took the carrots I bought for him from my hand. I took him back to Justin’s house. We were going to put him in the tank with Butch. I was going to film it and later I would show my film about caring.
Before we threw Benjamin to the wolves, or pythons as it were, I realized Justin did not have a cage to keep rabbits in. I asked him where he usually kept the rabbits before he fed them to Butch. He matter-of-factly replied, "In a brown paper bag." So Justin was not harboring the same kind of sympathy for Benjamin that I was quickly developing.
Despite my sympathy, principal photography on Din Din For Butch began. I filmed Benjamin, Butch, and Justin separately, thinking of as many different camera angles as I could, knowing full well each new camera angle was a stay of execution for Benjamin. Pretending to be tired, I decided we should postpone the money shot until the next morning. Justin reluctantly agreed. I took Benjamin home and said a little prayer – for both of us.
Morning arrived. All that was left to film was Benjamin’s swan song. At this point Benjamin and me were bros. As Justin carried Benjamin to Butch’s extra-large tank, I stopped him. I told him I couldn’t allow this to happen because I was Benjamin’s legal guardian. I cared too much about Benjamin. He was a cute, little wabbit. I was man enough to admit it.
Justin cared too much about Butch. We got into a discussion about the nature of existence, the circle of life, and acknowledged you can’t say circle of life without thinking hakuna matata. Justin pointed out that I eat animals all the time. But that was different. I didn’t have to see the animals being killed, they were just magically delicious. Also, I didn’t know their names. Eventually, Justin won the debate. Having won it, he unceremoniously dropped Benjamin into Butch's tank.
Benjamin landed with a soft thud, and I began filming, as my pulse raced. On the far end of the tank, a massive python who probably didn't know his name was Butch, began to unravel and slither toward a furry rabbit who probably didn't know his name was Benjamin. When Benjamin spotted this strange creature coming toward him, Benjamin gingerly hopped over to Butch, eager to meet him halfway. Benjamin showed no signs of panic or anxiety, only genuine curiosity. He was so curious, he began to sniff Butch's face without hesitation. This seemed to catch Butch off guard, because Butch recoiled. It was as if he was thinking, "What the hell? What kind of rabbit is this?"
And then Butch went back to his corner, wanting nothing whatsoever to do with the crazy ass mofo bunny who obviously had balls of steel. Justin advised me if we tried again, perhaps later that night, we would get a different result. But Benjamin literally sniffed the Face of Death and survived. That had to be respected.
We took Benjamin out of the tank. Justin said he would find another rabbit and feed Butch another time, when I wasn't around. As for Benjamin, I returned him to the animal shelter, explaining to the librarian lady that I was ultimately more into goldfish. I gave Benjamin one final relieved, farewell pat. As I left him behind, I was thankful he could not speak English. He probably would have said something to the people at the animal shelter along the lines of, “Wow, what a weekend...”
Upon returning to USC, I edited all my footage to imply Butch ate Benjamin: first showing Benjamin, then Butch, then the spot where Benjamin used to be. My classmates were horrified. They were convinced Benjamin was in Bunny Heaven. They figured I didn't include the precise moment of Butch gorging himself because I didn't want to get expelled for breaking Rule #2 at The USC School of Cinema-Television: no snuff films. (Funny that this had to be a rule, as if someone would make a snuff film otherwise.) I knew the truth about Benjamin. He was alive. No thanks to me, but still – he was alive. Butch would live. And the circle of life would continue its rotation, without my meddling.
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Carlos Kotkin is left-handed and had five pet chickens when he was growing up in the foothills of San Diego County in a place called Lakeside. He is a ten-time Moth storyslam winner, including two Grandslams, and has been featured on KCRW's UnFictional, as well as NPR's The Moth Radio Hour. His comic memoir of romantic misadventures, Please God Let It Be Herpes, has been published by Penguin books. You can learn more about Carlos Kotkin at his website.