JFK was chaos—delays, crowds, and short tempers. Then she appeared. A loud woman in a red coat, FaceTiming on speaker, letting her tiny dog poop in the terminal without blinking. When someone kindly pointed it out, she snapped, “Mind your business, Grandpa.” As gasps spread, she strutted off like she owned the place, leaving the mess behind. She shoved ahead at TSA, barked at staff, refused to remove her boots, and shouted at a barista over almond milk. Her dog barked at everything from babies to canes, and her music blasted from her phone with zero regard for the people around her.

Of course, she ended up at my gate—the flight to Rome. She took up three seats: one for her, one for her bag, and one for her dog. Everyone avoided her. The dog barked at a toddler, who cried and had to be taken away. I sat down right next to her. She side-eyed me. I smiled. “Long wait, huh?” I chatted casually, watched the chaos, then walked off pretending to stretch. When I returned, I planted the seed: “Rome flight’s been moved to Gate 14B.” I pointed to my phone and said it showed an update. She didn’t question it. She stood up, cursed everyone, yanked the leash, and stormed off.

She didn’t come back. The gate remained unchanged—Rome, on time. A hush fell. Then came a ripple of quiet laughter. Nods of appreciation. A thumbs-up. A child hugged her bear. Even the gate agent looked relieved. The nightmare was over, not with confrontation, but with clever redirection.

And me? I just leaned back in my seat, enjoying the peace. No barking, no yelling, no chaos—just grateful passengers boarding quietly for Rome.