JFK was chaos — delays, crowds, cranky travelers. Then she showed up: loud, entitled, dragging a yappy designer dog in a rhinestone collar. No headphones, shouting on FaceTime, music blasting from her phone, and worst of all? Her dog pooped right on the terminal floor. She didn’t clean it up. “They have people for that,” she snapped, then insulted the older man who politely pointed it out.

At TSA, she argued with agents, refused to take off her boots, and screamed at the barista for not having almond milk. Her dog barked at babies, old folks — everyone. By the time we all reached Gate 22 for the Rome flight, the mood was: exhausted.There she was again, sprawled across three seats with her dog, still FaceTiming. No one dared sit near her. Except me.

I smiled and sat down beside her. She glanced at me like I was a roach. I made small talk. Then I stretched, walked off briefly, and came back with a calm, quiet lie:“Hey — didn’t you hear? They moved the Rome flight to Gate 14B.”

She didn’t question it. Just muttered “Unbelievable,” grabbed her stuff, finally leashed her dog, and stormed off, yelling all the way. The gate stayed quiet. Nobody said a word. Then someone chuckled. A few clapped. The toddler stopped crying. A mom mouthed “thank you.” The gate agent returned, blinking in peace. And she? She never came back. Rome only flies once a day. Oops.