I recently had to fly home to visit my parents. Because I suffer from PTSD from a serious accident, I always travel with my certified service dog. She’s not just a companion—she helps regulate my breathing and keeps panic attacks at bay. Without her, I wouldn’t be able to fly.

We boarded quietly. I took the window seat, and my dog lay calmly at my feet, just as trained. But the peace didn’t last.

A middle-aged woman stopped in front of our row and loudly scoffed, “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m not sitting next to that filthy dog.”

I replied calmly, “She’s a trained medical animal. She’ll stay at my feet the whole flight.”

“Put it in the cargo hold! What if I’m allergic?” she snapped.

I was trying to hold it together when a flight attendant stepped in.

“What seems to be the issue?” she asked gently.

The woman exploded, “There’s a dog here! I don’t feel safe.”

The attendant stayed composed. “Ma’am, this is a certified service dog. She’s allowed here.”

“Well, she doesn’t look like a service dog,” the woman sneered. “I want them removed.”

My breathing quickened. I was shaking when the attendant asked for documents. I handed over the certification. She smiled warmly. “You’re fine. You can stay.”

The woman refused to back down. “I’m not sitting here!”

“Then we can find you another seat—or remove you from the flight.”

That’s when the pilot arrived. He looked the woman straight in the eye.

“Do you have proof of a medical allergy?”

She faltered. “No, but I don’t have to sit near a dog if I don’t want to!”

“In that case,” he said firmly, “you’re not flying today. And I’ll ensure you’re banned from our airline.”

The cabin erupted in applause. The woman was escorted off, shouting and cursing, but no one listened.

I stayed in my seat, resting my hand on my dog’s back—steady, calm, and exactly where she was meant to be.