As I settled into my seat, the usual pre-flight nerves kicked in. The cabin smelled like recycled air and coffee, and there was the familiar shuffle of people trying to fit their lives into overhead bins. I was halfway into that mental shift you do before take-off, when you stop thinking about the ground and start thinking about the hours ahead.
That is when I noticed the flight attendant.
Her name tag said Karen. Her posture was stiff, her smile looked practised, and her eyes kept snapping toward one particular row. At first I assumed it was the usual, a passenger arguing about luggage, someone refusing to turn on airplane mode, something small and annoying…
But it was not that.
A quiet man sat a few rows up with a service dog tucked neatly by his feet. The dog was calm, trained, and barely taking up space. It did not bark. It did not sniff people. It did not do anything except exist, like it was built to disappear into the background.
Karen looked like she hated that it was there.
Not mild irritation. Not worry. Something sharper, like the dog’s presence was personal to her. She kept staring, and every time she passed their row, her gaze lingered for just a second longer than it should have.