By Jason Smith

I was halfway out the door — bag packed, a printed copy of Confessions in my hand — when Johnny looked up at me from the floor like he knew something I didn’t.

I had a meeting in Hollywood with two producers: Bob Levy and Paul Wesley. They’d read my story and optioned it to turn into a TV series. Real Hollywood shit.

Problem was, I had Johnny. I didn’t have anyone to watch Johnny.

I stood there for a minute, door cracked open, debating whether to cancel or not. But canceling a meeting at the Warner Bros lot with the guys who made Gossip Girl and The Vampire Diaries wasn’t exactly an option. So I looked at Johnny, and he looked at me, and without saying anything, we both knew what was about to go down.

Johnny was coming to Hollywood.

We drove from Sacramento to Hollywood. Seven hours in the car, cutting smack-dab through the center of the state, straight south on I-5. Johnny rode shotgun, like always — head on the center console, eyes scanning the road like he was in charge. He didn’t care about producers or TV deals. He just wanted to be where I was.

Hollywood bustled as Hollywood does. We checked into the Mama Shelter Hotel. It was one of those boutique spots in West Hollywood — slick furniture, well-priced snacks, white robes folded like origami on the bed. The kind of place where you pretend you belong.

The morning of the meeting, I knew I couldn’t take Johnny to the Warner Bros lot with me. So, I turned where anybody in my shoes in 2017 would turn for help: I opened the Rover app and found a sitter nearby — some girl with five stars and a profile full of dogs in sweaters. I messaged her.

She showed up at my hotel room door right on time. Young — maybe early twenties. Cute face. Red hair, cut short, almost burgundy. She had dark eyeliner on and gave off a low-key emo vibe, like she probably listened to sad indie bands and had at least one tattoo she regretted but wouldn’t admit it.

She wore a black hoodie with sleeves that swallowed her hands, leggings, and boots that looked like they hadn’t touched mud in years. She smiled at me with a kind of soft detachment — polite, distant, like she’d already made peace with the fact that people suck but dogs don’t.

Johnny went straight to her.

No hesitation. No checking with me. He just went.

“Hey Johnny!” she said, remembering his name from the app. She crouched down, petting him like they’d known each other forever. “You’re such a good boy.”

He excitedly licked her face like we hadn’t just spent a day in a car. She laid on the bed, to the left, closest to the window. Johnny jumped up, laying at her feet. She grabbed the TV remote and clicked the power button.

“He’s good,” she promised with a smile. “Go to your meeting.”

I handed over his food and treats and watched my best friend lay with a stranger in a hoodie and dark eyeliner, like it was nothing.

The meeting was fine . Hollywood-fine. People said “we love the voice” and “let’s circle back.” They talked about grit like it was a brand. I nodded and smiled and sipped LaCroix and left without knowing if I’d ever hear from them again.

When I returned, Johnny and the girl were in the same exact spots they’d been before I left. Her to the left, closest to the window, he at the foot. Damn, I thought. They haven’t even moved.

I thanked her, and she left. Like that was it. Except that wasn’t it.

About an hour later, Johnny whined and I took him outside to pee. We were just doing a loop — sun going down, Johnny sniffing sidewalk trees and trash bins — when this guy came walking toward me.

Tall black dude, probably 6'4-ish. Cut-up biceps, jeans and a wife beater, blue bandana hanging from his back left pocket. Walking straight at me with zero hesitation.

He walked with a purpose, looking dead at me. Through me.

I stopped. Waited. Figured he’d go left or right.

He didn’t.

He came right up to me — close. Too close. A foot away. My body tensed. I flinched. Not proud of it, but that’s what happened. Some of it was trauma. Some of it was conditioning. Some of it was just internalized racism. I won’t dress it up.

Then he bent down and smiled.

“Wassup Johnny!”

Tha fuck?

Johnny wagged like his whole body was happy. The guy scratched his head, rubbed his back, kissed his face like they were old friends.

“Who’s a good boy?” he said. “You already know.”

I just stood there, blinking, trying to make sense of it. The guy stood up, dapped me. I botched it. Classic white guy handshake — half shake, half awkward slap. He laughed, nodded at Johnny, and kept walking.

“Take care of that dog, mister. He’s a good boy.”

And then it kept happening, before I could even realize it was happening.

A homeless woman a block away yelled, “Hey-oh, what’s up Johnny boy!?”

Another man walked past. “Hey Johnny!”

Then a couple in sunglasses. “Johnny!” Like he was the goddamn mayor.

I had no idea where the sitter took him or what they did in those few hours, but it was clear my dog had made the rounds. Johnny didn’t just go for a walk — he toured the city like he had the key. Made friends. Left an impression.

We got back to the room. Johnny jumped on the bed, looked at me, and smiled the way only dogs can. Like he was saying, Yeah, you’ve got meetings. Cool. I have a following.

He died a few years later.

It was a Thursday. July 25. 2024. Something wrong with his pancreas. Quick. Unexpected. He was only nine. I was there when he went. It gutted me.

Johnny Cash Smith. My best friend. My road dog. My constant. He saw everything — my worst, my relapses, my disappearing acts — and never judged. Never left. Just stayed.

I miss him every day.

When the silence gets too heavy, when I find myself talking to someone who isn’t there, I try to picture him in a better place. A place with open fields and new friends and sidewalks to explore forever.

And I like to believe that when I finally get there — wherever there is — Johnny will be waiting.

And he’ll turn to everyone around him and say:

“Hey everybody… this is Jason.”