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.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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