She let her dog poop on the floor, blasted music, and yelled at staff like the airport was her kingdom. By the time we reached the gate, everyone was exhausted, so I sat next to her with a smile and gave her a reason to finally walk away.

JFK was packed. Delays, long lines, cranky travelers. The usual. Then came the voice. Loud, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

“Yeah, yeah, I told her I wasn’t gonna do that. It’s not my job. I don’t care if she cries.”

Everyone turned. A woman in a red coat stood near the Hudson News store, holding her phone straight out in front of her, FaceTiming without headphones. Her voice cut through the noise like a car alarm.

Behind her, a small white puffball of a dog was squatting — right in the middle of the terminal. Its rhinestone collar sparkled under the harsh airport lights.

An older man in a tan cap stepped forward and said gently, “Excuse me, miss? Your dog…” He pointed at the mess forming on the tile.

“Some people are so damn rude,” she snapped, then turned back to her phone call. “Ugh, this guy’s staring at me like I just murdered someone. Mind your business, Grandpa.”

Gasps spread through the crowd. One mom near me said, “Oh my God,” and covered her little kid’s eyes like it was a crime scene.

Another traveler raised her voice. “Ma’am! You’re not going to clean that up?”

The woman didn’t stop walking. She tossed a hand in the air and said, “They have people for that.”

People stood still in disbelief, like they were trying to process what just happened.

Later, I saw her again at TSA. She shoved past people in line and dropped her tote bag at the front like she owned the place.

“Ma’am, you need to wait your turn,” the agent said.

“I have PreCheck,” she snapped. “And my dog gets anxious.”

“That’s not the PreCheck line,” the agent said, pointing across the room.

“Well, I’m going through anyway.”

Someone behind her muttered, “Unreal.”

Then came the shoe argument.

“I’m not taking them off,” she said.

“You have to,” the TSA worker replied.

“I’m TSA-friendly. They’re slides.”

“They’re boots, ma’am.”

“I’ll sue.”

Eventually, she took them off, muttering under her breath the whole time. Her dog barked at everything: a baby in a stroller, a man with a cane, a rolling suitcase. Nonstop.

At the coffee stand, she raised her voice again. “No, I said almond milk. Are you deaf?”

“I’m sorry,” the barista replied. “We only have oat or soy right now.”

“I said almond!”

“We can refund you,” another worker offered.

“Forget it. You people are impossible,” she snapped, grabbing her drink and storming away. Her music blasted from her phone speakers now, still no headphones. She didn’t seem to care that everyone could hear her playlist.

I finally made it to Gate 22, the flight to Rome. And of course, there she was again.

Still on FaceTime. Still no headphones. Still letting her dog bark at anything that moved. She had her legs across one chair, her bag on another, and the dog spread out on the third.

A man across from her muttered, “This can’t be real.” A young woman stood and moved to another row of seats. Two older passengers whispered to each other, “Is she really on our flight?” They looked nervous, like they were hoping she was just passing through.

The dog barked at a toddler, who started crying. The parents picked up the child and walked away without a word.

Nobody sat near her. Nobody said anything. Except me.

I walked right over and sat down beside her.

She glanced sideways at me, eyes narrowed like I might be another problem. I smiled. “Long wait, huh?”

She didn’t answer. The dog barked at my shoe.

“Cute little guy,” I said.

“He doesn’t like strangers,” she muttered.

“I get it,” I said. “Airports bring out the worst in everyone.”

She went back to her call. I leaned back in my chair, glancing around. People were watching us. Watching her. Watching me.

They looked tired. Hopeful. Curious.

I stayed quiet. I already knew what I was going to do.

I sat there quietly, the chaos humming beside me like background noise. She was still yelling into her phone, something about a missing bracelet and how “they’ll just have to send a new one.”

Her voice scratched at my ears like a fork dragged across glass. The dog was now chewing on a plastic straw wrapper someone had dropped. No leash. No concern.

My eyes drifted to a couple sitting near the window. The man had a cane resting across his lap, and his wife clutched a boarding pass in both hands like a fragile bird.

The dog barked twice at them. Loud, sharp, and sudden. They flinched. The woman whispered something, and the man nodded. They stood slowly, collected their things, and shuffled away.

That was it. I exhaled through my nose, almost smiling.

This woman reminded me of someone I used to serve during my time as a customer service rep. She would dump out returns on the counter and always say “Do your job” like it was a curse.

The type of person who walked through life like a storm, expecting others to clean up the mess. I remember standing there, blinking, hands tied by policy, while she demanded to speak to a manager I didn’t even like.

My mom always said, “The only way to deal with a bully is to smile and move smarter than they do.” I never forgot that.

And I was tired. It had been a long month, a longer week, and this gate — this moment — felt like the perfect time to listen to Mom.

The woman beside me screeched into her phone again. “No! Tell him I’m not paying for that! If he wants to fight about it, he can take it to court. I’ve got screenshots!”

The dog jumped off its chair and started barking again. High-pitched and constant.

A gate agent poked her head out to make an announcement, saw the situation, and quietly ducked back inside.

I stood up.

She looked at me sideways, annoyed. “What now?”

I smiled. “Just stretching.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to her call.

I walked a few feet away, stretched my arms, then wandered over to the gate’s edge, leaning near the window. I waited, just long enough for her to think I was gone. Just long enough for my plan to come together.

Then I walked back, sat down beside her again, and casually pulled out my phone.

“Flying to Paris for fun?” I asked, like we were old friends.

She stopped mid-sentence. “What?”

“Paris,” I said, nodding toward the gate. “Are you going for work or vacation?”

She scoffed. “I’m going to Rome.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Yeah,” I said, scrolling my phone like I was double-checking. “They must’ve switched it last minute. You better hurry. 14B’s kind of far.”

She looked at the monitor. Then at me. Then back at her phone. She didn’t question it. Didn’t confirm it. Just muttered, “Unbelievable,” stood up, and started throwing things into her oversized bag. The dog barked. She yanked its leash — finally — and dragged it along behind her.

As she stomped away, her voice echoed behind her. “Stupid airport. No one knows what they’re doing.”

Not a single person stopped her. Not the gate agent. Not the tired passengers. Everyone just watched as she disappeared into the crowd, leaving a quiet trail of curses and tapping paws.

I leaned back in my seat. Silence. No barking. No screeching. Just the regular hum of an airport gate. The screen behind me still said “ROME – ON TIME.” And she never came back.

A quiet beat passed. Then a soft laugh. Someone near the back let out a chuckle, which set off another. Soon, the sound rolled through the gate like a gentle wave. It wasn’t loud, just warm — the kind of laughter that bubbles up when relief settles in.

A young woman gave me a thumbs-up. A man across the aisle tipped an invisible hat. The mom with the toddler, now peacefully playing with a toy truck, smiled wide and mouthed “thank you.”

From somewhere near the snack kiosk, someone clapped. Once. Paused. Then clapped again. A few joined in, unsure if they should, but the moment didn’t need full applause. It just needed that quiet acknowledgment that something had shifted.

A little girl near the window whispered, “Yay,” and hugged her stuffed bear close. Her parents looked less tense. Even the gate agent, returning to her podium, looked surprised — and maybe a little grateful.

I exchanged looks with a few others. Rome only gets one flight a day from JFK. Oops.