She allowed her little dog to relieve itself right on the shiny tile floor, cranked up her music so everyone could hear it, and barked orders at the airport staff as though she owned the place. By the time we finally made it down to the gate area, the entire crowd was on edge—from tired business travelers to families with squirming children—and I decided to take a seat next to her with a calm smile, setting in motion a plan that would convince her to march off in defeat.
John F. Kennedy International Airport was chaotic that day. Flights were running late, lines snaked through every terminal corridor, and travelers wore expressions of impatience and frustration. Of course, blazing through that general roar of discontent came her voice—sharp, loud, and impossible to tune out.
“Yeah, yeah, I told her I wasn’t going to do that,” she yapped into her phone. “It’s not my problem. She can cry all she wants.”
Heads turned in her direction. The woman was clad in a bright red coat that made her stand out among the dull jackets and business suits. She held her phone at arm’s length, conducting a FaceTime call without a hint of care for those around her. No headphones. No courtesy.
At her feet, a tiny white puff of fur—her Chihuahua—had squatted squarely in the middle of the main walkway. The dog’s sparkly rhinestone collar rattled faintly as it did its business.
An elderly gentleman wearing a beige cap stepped forward slowly. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me, ma’am? Your dog …” He nodded toward the fresh mess on the floor.
“Some people are so rude,” she snapped at him, waving a dismissive hand before turning back to her call. “Ugh, he’s gawking at me like I killed someone. Mind your own business, grandpa.”
A hush fell over the nearby crowd. A young mother near me gasped and covered her toddler’s eyes like the scene before us was a gruesome horror movie.
Another traveler — a tall woman clutching an oversized tote — raised her voice: “Ma’am! Are you not going to clean that up?”
The woman in red barely spared her a glance. With a flick of her hand, she said, “They have people for that.”
And then she stomped off, phone pressed to her ear, leaving that senior citizen and the rest of us staring at the mess in disbelief.
Moments later, I spotted her again at the TSA checkpoint. She cut in front of a line of people who had been patiently waiting for twenty minutes, yanked her tote in front of the security agent’s face, and dropped it with a thud so loud it rattled the bins.
“Excuse me, ma’am—you need to stay in line,” the agent instructed gently.
“I have PreCheck,” she snapped right back. “And my dog gets nervous.”
“This is not the PreCheck line,” the agent replied, pointing to a corridor on the other side of the room labeled “TSA PreCheck.”
“Well, I’m going through anyway,” she said, pushing past him.
A mumble of “unbelievable” rippled through the frustrated travelers behind her.
Then came the showdown over footwear.
“I’m not taking my boots off,” she said defiantly.
“You have to remove them,” the agent insisted.
“They’re slides,” she retorted. “I’m TSA-friendly.”
“They are boots, ma’am. Please take them off.”
“Fine. I’ll sue,” she muttered loudly to no one in particular as she unbuckled the heavy leather footwear.
She dropped them to the floor with a thump and turned back to her call, muttering nonsense under her breath.
Meanwhile, her little dog barked at everything: at a baby in a stroller, at a man leaning on a cane, at a rolling suitcase. Nonstop.
Later, she stormed to the coffee kiosk, where a barista in a crisp black apron waited behind a gleaming counter.
“I want an almond milk latte — almond!” she demanded.
“We have oat milk or soy milk today,” the barista replied politely.
“I said almond!” she snapped, voice rising so that everyone in the queue could hear.
“We can give you a refund,” offered another staff member, voice calm.
“Forget it,” the woman in red snarled, grabbing the drink she never ordered and flicking more of her music into the terminal. Her phone speaker boomed her playlist without mercy.
I finally reached Gate 22, where the flight to Rome was boarding soon. And of course, there she was again: still on FaceTime, still no headphones, still letting her Chihuahua yip and yap at any moving thing. Her legs were stretched across two seats, her purse flopped on a third, and the little dog sprawled across a fourth.
A man sitting opposite her shook his head. “This can’t be real,” he muttered to his companion.
A younger woman nearby quietly gathered her carry‑on and moved away. A pair of elderly passengers whispered, “Is she really on our flight?” They looked at the gate agent with worried eyes, hoping she might be rebooked or escorted off the plane.
The toddler whose eyes had been shielded earlier started to whimper again as the dog barked directly at him. The parents pulled the child close and walked away wordlessly.
No one dared approach her now. No one tried to intervene. Except me.
I rose from my seat and planted myself into the chair right beside her. She flicked her gaze toward me, eyebrows drawn together as if I were another disruption in her personal drama.
Smiling, I said softly, “Long wait, huh?”
She didn’t respond. Instead, the dog made a sudden squeaky bark at my shoe.
“Cute little guy,” I said, tone friendly.
“He hates strangers,” she muttered, still not looking at me.
“I get it,” I replied. “Airports can bring out the worst in all of us.”
That made her pause mid‑sentence, but she didn’t meet my eyes as she returned to her FaceTime argument about some missing bracelet.
I leaned back and let the noise of the gate wash over us. Travelers were glancing over, their tired faces showing a mix of frustration and relief that someone was finally sitting next to her.
Her voice stabbed at my ears: “They owe me a new one! I have screenshots. If he tries to charge me, he’s going to court, okay?”
Her dog jumped from its seat to the floor and began chomping on a crumpled plastic straw wrapper carelessly dropped by another passenger.
No leash. No care. No sign of shame.
My gaze drifted across to an elderly couple a few rows away. The man had his cane laid across his lap. His wife gripped her boarding pass with both hands, trembling slightly. When the dog barked at them, they flinched and quietly rose, gathering their belongings to move further down the gate.
That was all I needed to see. I inhaled a steady breath, and allowed a small smile to form at the corners of my mouth.
She reminded me of a woman I once waited on when I worked retail. The kind who dumped her purchases onto the counter and growled, “Do your job,” as if her irritation could force me through company policy. I remembered the knot in my chest as she demanded to talk to anyone who had more power than me. When my hands were tied, I was helpless. But I learned from my mother: “When you face a bully, you grin, you stay calm, and you outthink them.”
That lesson circulated through my mind as I watched her arguing again: “No! I’m not paying for that shipping! He can have a lawsuit! I’m not giving him a dime!”
Her dog barked again, a sharp, piercing sound that made a few heads turn.
A gate agent peeked out from behind the desk to see what was going on, paused at the sight of the Chihuahua and the shrieking phone call, then ducked back inside without making a move.
That was my cue. I stood up, calmly, almost lazily. She looked at me with annoyance as I stood and began to stretch my arms above my head.
“What’s your problem now?” she snapped over her phone.
I lowered my arms and flashed her a polite grin. “Just getting the blood flowing.”
She scoffed and turned her attention back to her call, her coat flaring as she shifted her weight.
I drifted a few paces away so she would think I had moved on. Then I sauntered back and sat down again, phone in hand, as though nothing had happened.
“Flying to Paris for business?” I asked casually, tapping my own screen as if I was reading an update.
She frowned, paused her conversation, and looked at me. “No,” she said. “I’m going to Rome.”
“Oh, Rome!” I said, nodding. “That’s awesome. But wait—didn’t you get an alert from the airline? They changed gates last minute. Your Rome flight’s now at Gate 14B. This gate is for Paris.”
Her eyes darted to the big monitor overhead, then back at me. She didn’t check her phone. She didn’t look for an announcement. She just muttered, “Unbelievable,” grabbed her bag, clipped a leash onto the yapping dog, and stomped off.
Behind her echoed one final insult aimed at the departing crowd: “This airport is completely clueless!”
No one stopped her. No one offered to guide her to Gate 14B. They simply watched as she disappeared through the throng, dragging the little dog behind her while blasting her phone’s music.
I settled back into my seat. Silence blossomed in her wake. No more barking. No more shrieking. Just the usual hum of travelers waiting to board.
The screen still read “ROME — ON TIME,” glowing quietly above.
For a moment, the gate area held its breath. Then an almost imperceptible chuckle rose from the back row. It grew into a ripple of quiet laughter—soft, relieved, like the tension had slid away on a breath of fresh air.
The young mother with the toddler offered me a grateful smile and mouthed “Thank you.” The man who had once muttered “This can’t be real” gave me a subtle thumbs‑up. Across the aisle, another traveler tipped an imaginary hat, a gesture of solidarity.
Somewhere near the snack kiosk, a faint round of applause began—just a handful of claps, tentative and polite, as though they were celebrating a small victory for everyone’s sanity.
A little girl by the window whispered “Yay!” to her toy bear, and her parents looked far more relaxed than they had just minutes before.
Even the gate agent who peeked earlier returned to her post, shook her head with a bemused smile, and carried on.
And behind me, the departure board still read “ROME — ON TIME.”
