Scarborough's nine hours on the runway

An hour later, the pilot came back on to tell us what lucky dogs we were to have a seat on his plane instead of being trapped inside LaGuardia like all those other poor suckers who would not be going anywhere today.

“We are the last flight out of LaGuardia.”

Our chests swelled with pride at the thought of being the chosen ones who would escape the island and get home to our loved ones in time for Valentine’s dinner and a movie.

It must have been in hour two when the pilot came back on to tell us that while we waited for the weather to break, Delta would let us watch a free movie. It was Robin Williams’ “Man of the Year”—a perfectly harmless political flick until it tried to morph into a John Grisham thriller that had Laura Linney drugged, kidnapped and run over in attempts to stop the heroine from telling President-elect Mork the truth about what was going on in his kingdom of Ork.

Two more hours passed. The movie ended and the grumbling began. The pilot kept preaching patience to an increasingly tired and hungry group of passengers who had now been on the plane over four hours. By this time the pilot gave us, in effect, the Hotel California option of being able to check out anytime we’d like. But we could never leave. We were told that while we could get our bags and get off the flight, we would not be able to catch another plane out of New York until Tuesday. So we were trapped. But how lucky we were! Man, think of all those poor people still stuck inside the terminal.

While we were playing the role of Don Henley at the Hotel California, our pilot played Freddie at In and Out Burger, telling us that some of the crew would be leaving the plane for a while to grab lunch for the flight attendants. They had not eaten since they got on the plane five hours ago, after all. Poor things. The pity we felt for Delta employees was eclipsed by the frustration of most passengers who had also gone without food since the night before.

How bout grabbing a burger for us, Maverick?

Little Fido’s scrawny body started looking more tasty by the minute. But instead of ripping him out of the Dog Whisperer’s hands, I shuffled back to the rear cabin of the plane and ripped open a bag of peanuts. Other men were huddling around with their blackberries and cell phones, while a pretty flight attendant was less than thrilled to be crowded out by her new friends. I heard her ask her partner, “Why the hell did that gate attendant let all these people on the plane?”

An hour later, I was still huddled in the back learning about Fire Island, Martha’s Vineyard and Tuscaloosa softball camps with my fellow survivors. On screens throughout the cramped cabin, Kristin Dunst’s “Marie Antoinette” flickered for a few hours. Then it was over.

Everyone, including the flight attendants, was getting agitated. We had already made a pass at de-icing and taking off. But after that 45-minute procedure that promised passage from snowy New York, we were told that the temperatures dropped eight degrees and the ice pellets were back. We would be stuck another hour.

Then came perhaps the worst news yet. Three movies into our odyssey, the only film left in Delta’s VCR catalog was Ryan O’ Neal’s smarmy “Love Story”—an appropriate movie since I am still waiting for Delta to tell me that they’re sorry. The news of this latest cruel twist sank our spirits like a lead balloon.

More groans filled the cabin. From the back someone yelled “The humanity!” Even the dogs snarled at the sight of Technicolor turtlenecks and Ali McGraw’s impish face. Like Lot, I averted my eyes but others were not so lucky. The mood darkened.

By hour eight, dog owners had enough. They began taking their pets to the bathrooms to rid themselves of last night’s Alpo. I was lucky enough to be in line to watch the splendid moment in aviation history as the Dog Whisperer put Fido in the bathroom, placed a mat on the floor, closed the door to give the wretched little beast his privacy, and then reopened it to see—ta da!--dog crap.

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