Most dogs chase squirrels, fetch sticks, or bark at the mailman. But not Butters. Butters, my six-year-old English bulldog, was more into naps than nature, more interested in belly rubs than bones. His hobbies included snoring like a freight train, knocking over water bowls by accident (and sometimes on purpose), and pretending not to hear commands unless food was directly involved. He was a 60-pound lump of love with jowls that flopped with every breath, a body built for lounging, and a look of perpetual mild confusion.
He was also about to become internet famous.
It started on a boring Sunday. I was half-scrolling through TikTok, half-watching Butters snore in his beanbag chair. Outside, the world was gray with drizzle, which meant no walks, no errands, and no desire to do anything productive. I had just come across a viral trend where people played dramatic music over their pets doing absolutely nothing. One cat slowly turned its head and now had a million views. Another dog blinked in slow motion and had brand sponsorships in the comments.
I looked at Butters. He was flat on his back, paws splayed, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth like a slice of ham. His belly rose and fell like he was manually inflating a beach ball. It was glorious.
I grabbed my phone and hit record. I added the slow-motion effect, layered in the Titanic theme song, and captioned it, “My dog has never moved faster than 1 mile per hour and I respect that.”
That night, I forgot I even posted it. But by morning, everything had changed.
I woke up to 72 missed notifications. At first, I thought someone had died. But no—people had seen Butters. And they loved him.
Overnight, the video had hit 600,000 views. There were comments like:
“OMG he’s a whole mood.”
“This is the energy I’m bringing into 2025.”
“Protect this king at all costs.”
Someone had even stitched the video to narrate it in a fake British accent: “Sir Butters, Duke of Napsworth.” That version had another half-million views.
I stared at Butters. He was in the same beanbag, now chewing on a half-deflated tennis ball like it owed him money.
“Butters,” I whispered, “you’re famous.”
He burped.
By the end of the week, Butters had 1.2 million followers.
We made another video where I tried to get him to play fetch. He looked at the ball, then at me, then slowly lay down on it like it was a warm pillow. Caption: “That’s enough cardio for the year.” Two million views.
We did a voiceover video where Butters “complained” about how hard it was to be a dog: “You think I want to walk every day? I have a schedule: nap, snack, nap, regret the snack, nap again.” Three million views.
Suddenly, we were doing interviews with pet content pages, getting DMs from dog treat companies, and receiving packages addressed to “Butters the Bulldog.” One included a rhinestone-studded leash and a note that read, “For your next red carpet.”
Butters, naturally, ignored it and chose to chew the box instead.
A week later, the diva phase began.
I’m not saying fame went to Butters’ head, but let’s just say he stopped getting up for his usual kibble. I would pour it into his bowl, and he’d sit five feet away and stare at me like, You expect me to eat without duck pâté?
He started barking if I didn’t fluff his beanbag before he lay down. And not a “play with me” bark—more like a “summon the help” bark.
One morning, I caught him licking the inside of his lip in the mirror. I don’t even know how he learned that. Another day, I found him sitting in front of the ring light I used for video calls, waiting like he was ready for a shoot. I said, “Do you want to film?” and he barked once, then struck a pose: one paw up, eyes half-closed, tongue slightly out.
It was absurd. It was terrifying. It was… great content.
Soon, Butters had a management team.
Not officially, of course—I’m still his owner, not his assistant—but two social media interns from a pet brand reached out to “collaborate.” They offered us free treats, custom branding, and a schedule of campaigns. Butters became the face of a sleepy dog shampoo (don’t ask), and his new favorite squeaky toy came with a hashtag.
I had to admit, the money was nice. We weren’t rolling in it, but the affiliate links alone paid for Butters’ new orthopedic dog bed and an upgrade to my phone plan.
And then came the TikTok Live Event.
“Butters,” I said one day, scrolling through an invite, “you’ve been invited to co-host a petfluencer pajama party. In LA. With dogs named Corgi De Niro and Lady Pawsworth.”
He was snoring with his face in a bowl of yogurt. I took that as a yes.
Traveling with Butters was an adventure. He refused to wear a dog carrier, so I had to buy him his own plane seat. He also refused to sit in it unless there was a pillow and a blanket. And even then, he only stopped grumbling when the flight attendant brought him a cup of ice cubes.
When we got to the hotel, the staff already knew his name. Someone handed me a dog-friendly welcome basket with chew toys, beef-flavored biscuits, and a card that said, “To His Napship.”
At the event, Butters didn’t even pretend to be humble. He walked down the miniature red carpet in a silk robe. Cameras flashed. Someone played lo-fi beats. He grunted once, then lay flat in front of a plush backdrop with glitter bones and flashing hearts. A social media rep whispered to me, “He’s a natural.”
In the panel discussion—yes, there was a panel—Butters was invited onstage. He sat on a velvet pillow. Another dog barked too loudly, and Butters stared at them with such calm disdain that someone in the audience whispered, “Oh my god, he’s judging him.”
A clip of that moment went viral with the caption: “When you’re the CEO of Chill.”
Back home, things settled down a bit. Butters was still famous, but the daily chaos of videos, edits, and brand deals had slowed. We still posted once or twice a week, usually a sleepy video or a quick skit. The fans stayed loyal. The comments were still loving.
But one afternoon, I looked over and found Butters curled up on the couch, not in his beanbag, not posing for a video. He looked peaceful. And something in me softened.
I set my phone down.
That day, we didn’t film. We just hung out—him, snoring gently beside me, and me, flipping through a book. The house was quiet, the rain was tapping softly on the windows, and the world, for once, didn’t need a post.
Butters still gets recognized sometimes. Kids point and whisper, “Mom, that’s the sleepy TikTok dog!” Once, someone asked if they could take a selfie with him at the park. He licked their hand, then rolled onto his back, demanding a belly rub.
He hasn’t changed that much. He still snores, still knocks over water bowls, and still has that “did I leave the stove on?” expression most of the day. But now he’s also got a million followers, a line of chew toys with his face on them, and—get this—a framed “TikTok Star” award that sits crookedly on our shelf, next to a jar of peanut butter and his favorite chewed-up tennis ball.
I guess it’s true what they say: fame finds you when you’re not looking. Or, in Butters’ case, when you’re napping.
And as for me? I’m just the guy who followed him around with a phone and a dream. And honestly? That’s enough.
Because at the end of the day, it was never about the views.
It was about the dog who made the internet stop and smile for a moment.
Even if he slept through most of it.
