I Outsmarted an Entitled Dog Owner at the Airport Gate

A woman with a noisy dog turned JFK into her personal playground, leaving messes and yelling at everyone. By the gate, I’d had enough and decided she needed a lesson. My clever move sent her packing and left the gate clapping.

JFK was chaos—crowded, delayed, and tense. Then her voice pierced through, loud and sharp, on a speakerphone call by a newsstand. “I’m not doing that! She can cry!” she shouted, ignoring the stares. Her fluffy dog, in a glittery collar, was leaving a mess on the floor. An older man gently said, “Miss, your dog…” She snapped, “Get lost, Grandpa!” A nearby mom gasped, covering her kid’s eyes, as the crowd murmured in shock.

A woman with her phone in an airport | Source: Pexels

She waved off the mess, saying, “They have cleaners for that,” and strutted away. At TSA, she cut the line, claiming, “I have PreCheck, and my dog’s stressed.” The agent corrected her, but she argued, even refusing to remove her boots until forced, muttering the whole time. At the coffee counter, she berated the barista for lacking almond milk. “Are you dumb?” she yelled, her phone blaring music without headphones.

At Gate 22 for Rome, she was sprawled over three seats, her dog barking at everyone. A toddler cried when it snapped, and the parents fled. Passengers whispered, dreading her on their flight. No one sat near her—except me. I slid into the seat beside her, smiling. “Rough day?” Her dog yapped at me, and she muttered, “He hates strangers.” She went back to her loud call, ranting about a missing earring. Her dog chewed trash, unleashed, while she ignored it.

I’d dealt with people like her in my old waitressing days—demanding, rude, expecting the world to bend. My mom’s advice rang in my head: “Beat a bully with brains and a grin.” I was ready. When her dog barked at an elderly couple, who moved away nervously, I stood, stretched, and walked to the gate’s edge, checking my phone. Then I sat back down and said, “Paris trip for fun?” She scoffed, “I’m going to Rome.” I faked a look at my phone. “Huh, an alert says Rome’s now at Gate 14B. This is Paris.”

She didn’t verify, just cursed, grabbed her stuff, and dragged her dog away, yelling, “This airport’s a mess!” The gate went quiet—no barking, no shouting. Laughter spread softly. A man nodded, a woman smiled, and a mom with a now-calm toddler mouthed, “Thanks.” A kid giggled, hugging her doll. The gate agent looked grateful. The Rome flight was still at Gate 22, and she never returned. What would you have done?

 

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