One could be forgiven, on first viewing, for mistaking this aircraft for the fever dream of a Gulf potentate with a Liberace fetish and no taste for subtlety. The so-called “gift” from the royal family of Qatar—ostensibly a Boeing 747-8, but more accurately a $400 million airborne Versailles for a man who confuses grandeur with greatness—is less a plane than a monument to the aesthetic bankruptcy of late-stage American spectacle.

That it is destined, in some grotesque ballet of legal acrobatics and geopolitical ego-stroking, to serve first as Air Force One and then as the permanent property of the Trump Presidential Library is a joke so on-the-nose one can almost hear Jonathan Swift sighing in admiration. Here is the ceremonial barge not of a president, but of an emperor in exile, trussed in gold-leaf delusion and flying high above constitutional norms.

Flossi—a beige miniature poodle with a regal posture and a nose for power—has made Washington, D.C., her home for the last eight months. While most dogs content themselves with sticks and tennis balls, Flossi preferred policy briefings and monument walks. Her days were spent trotting past the Capitol, tail high, ears perked, as if assessing the legislative mood. She’d bark twice at the Supreme Court (a subtle commentary on indecision) and pause at the Lincoln Memorial for long, contemplative stares, as though communing with history.

Tourists mistook her for a cleverly disguised diplomat’s companion. Reporters whispered that she’d been seen in the West Wing. Somewhere in Foggy Bottom, a foreign minister had once scratched her behind the ears and called her “Madame Ambassador.”

But even Flossi, with her impeccable manners and polished fur, began to tire of the suits, the slow-moving motorcades, and the endless debates about budget ceilings. Though loyal to the ideals of civic engagement, her heart began to yearn for something different: a place with rhythm, verticality, and just a dash of chaos.

Now, as her chauffeur-driven pickup truck pulled away from the illuminated dome of the Capitol, Flossi turned her gaze northward. New York City awaited.

Her paws tapped excitedly on the leather seats as the skyline came into view. The Empire State Building glowed like a beacon of possibility. The Statue of Liberty raised her torch as if to say, “Come, Flossi, the city is yours.”

Flossi had plans. She would stroll Fifth Avenue in oversized sunglasses, breakfast in Central Park (always a croissant), and attend avant-garde theatre in SoHo. She might take a guest lecturer role at NYU’s Department of Urban Canine Studies or be spotted front row at Fashion Week, curled neatly on a Balenciaga tote.

But beyond the glamour and grit, Flossi was on a mission: to understand the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. D.C. had taught her structure; New York would teach her improvisation. She wasn’t running from the capital—she was graduating from it.

As the city lights reflected in her dark, intelligent eyes, Flossi let out a single, anticipatory bark. New York didn’t know it yet, but it was about to meet its newest cultural critic, charm ambassador, and unexpected heroine: Flossi, the poodle with a passport—and a point of view.