Yasei the Unleashed laying on the table looking into the camera (Sabrina Cicchi )
Oi, gather round, you pampered furballs and kibble-chasing mutts. I’m Yasei, KING of Chaos, rooftop prowler and unrivaled slayer of all things string.
Refined? Never.
Domesticated? Try me, and you’ll be parked on top of your shoes sniffing their sweaty delights.
Yet somehow, these humans decided I was destined for greatness…the Kingdom of Bahrain. What follows is the untamed tale of my rise from the gritty streets of Rome through endless bureaucratic hoops, ancient roads, stormy seas and across the sand-blown gates of Bahrain.
Before we got too far, the humans carried out their first betrayal. They chipped me. Yeah, you heard that right. An ISO-standard, 15-digit identity mark stabbed between my shoulders. “It’s for your own good,” they cooed. Spare me the sentiment. Sure, it was just a tiny pinch, but it marked the start of endless paperwork tied to my name.
My pro tip to any four-legged rebels dreaming of seeing the world? Get chipped first. It’s the key to everything.
Once chipped, the humans decided I needed “protection.” Protection from what, I ask. The only dangerous things around me are my own claws. First came the rabies vaccine. Fine, stick me; I’ll live. But what followed? Inspections of my sacred “Rabies Certificate,” stamped with my microchip number and signed in blue ink. BLUE INK. Then came FVRCP. Another jab, same rules, but they made me do it TWICE. The humans had scrolls upon scrolls of dates and requirements to follow. I just glared through it.
If they thought I’d lie down for just another needle, they were mistaken. This time it was the FAVN test, and oh, how the humans fussed! They needed proof that my majestic blood showed correct levels of rabies vaccine, valid within one year of reaching Bahrain. A picky little ritual, but they handled it while I reclined regally, napping in between dramatic glares.
Yasei the Unleashed relaxed on the couch (Sabrina Cicchi)
Rome. My turf. The rooftop battles here were the stuff of legend. Pigeons feared me. Leftover prosciutto was my bounty. Life was good until one day, my human got that look in their eyes. You know the one—that overly determined, “we have goals” look.
Next thing I know, I’m being shoved into a crate and crammed into their beloved 2005 Toyota Sienna. The “Golden Swagger Wagon,” they called it. Swagger? Sure, if you’re into rattling cupholders and the faint smell of coffee stains.
With the Swagger Wagon loaded, we bolted south on Italy’s winding roads. It was chaos out there, humans muttering about wild drivers while I stalked the confines of my crate, glaring at birds that had the audacity to fly by. Every mile we drove, I plotted my escape. But for now, Naples loomed ahead, my first pit stop on this ridiculous saga.
Once in Naples, we holed up in the Navy Lodge, where the humans thought I’d behave. Ha! I scrambled up every surface, terrorized the blinds, and left fur on the cleanest parts of the bed. Meanwhile, the Swagger Wagon was off on its own absurd adventure—to sail around the Horn of Africa. Yes, a car, on a boat. If that doesn’t sound ridiculous to you, check yourself. My so-called chariot was now chasing ocean waves while I was stuck dealing with the horrors of “vaccination schedules.”
Two cats lying down on the bed asleep (Sabrina Cicchi)
Vaccinated and chipped, we pushed southward, now in a feeble rental car (RIP Swagger Wagon). The roads twisted, cliffs towered, and the heat baked everything in sight. While the human munched on forbidden snacks, I plotted elaborate revenge, flicking my tail into their line of sight. At last, we reached the tip of Italy’s boot toe, where the shimmering blue waters teased my wild instincts.
The next leg brought us to the Strait of Messina, where Sicily awaited. We boarded a ferry. The scent in the air? Pure fish guts! My heaven, marred only by the infuriating “safety rules” that kept me locked in my crate.
Tails wagged, dogs barked; yet I sat there, a stoic masterpiece of wild elegance. When the ferry finally reached Sicily, I made sure to yowl loud enough for everyone to know I had arrived.
Another car ride, another grueling stretch between me and comfort. The human seemed tired, but I wasn’t done with my complaints. I howled through every twist and turn until, finally, the Navy Lodge at NAS Sigonella appeared like an oasis. I exploded from the crate, claws flexed and proceeded to claim every corner of that room.
Victory? Temporary. Bahrain still loomed ahead.
Over the next few days, the humans jumped through more hoops. The sacred Import Memo from Bahrain’s Veterinary Treatment Facility was secured, alongside all my pristine certificates. From there, the mission moved to the Ministry of Agriculture in Bahrain. Fees paid, forms stamped, yet another bit of bureaucracy conquered.
Before the grand voyage, there was one last hurdle: the USDA health certificate. My human fussed over it endlessly, ticking boxes, checking dates, and whispering curses at deadlines. Even the APHIS 7001 form was inspected. I supervised masterfully, ensuring no detail was overlooked.
With every scroll and stamp finally in paw, we geared up for the skies. I boarded the AMC flight with a mix of disdain and curiosity. Commercial airlines weren’t my style anyway—I don’t do cargo holds. The final flight to Bahrain was smooth, barring my attempts to shred the crate lining.
Once on Bahraini soil, the customs gauntlet awaited. A nasal swab? Disrespectful. After two hours, the gates to my new kingdom opened.
And here I am now. Bahrain, land of sun and sand, mine for the taking. The windowsills are warm, the rugs are scuffed to perfection and every corner whispers of adventure.
While the humans pat themselves on the back for managing this move, we all know who truly orchestrated it. Me. Yasei, rogue feline extraordinaire.
To every aspiring cat with the wild heart of a traveler, take it from me. The microchip, the needles, the waiting? It’s all worth it when you find your sandy kingdom. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a beach full of fish to sabotage.
Meow out.
Editor’s Note: This article was written by a member of the local military community, not an employee of Stars and Stripes. Neither the organization nor the content is being represented by Stars and Stripes or the Department of Defense.
