Well, I guess I can tell you a little without having to resort to useless violence. There are these places in Japan that were former ninja lairs while at the same time being a regular town – i.e. hidden while simultaneously not hiding, one of the many secrets of pajama wearers. Since you’ve read this far without punching me (or my fake cockatiel) in the face I don’t see any problem telling you the name of the place I went, Iga.

If you ask Japanese people if ninjas don’t exist anymore they’ll look at you like you’re a moron and give you one of those condescending pats on the head. However, don’t let this fool you, fool, you think they’d actually spill the beans? In the land of rice? Never. Not only are ninjas all around you, but they love to just hang around in the strangest of places for no good goddamn reason. You’d know more about this, but they only show themselves in April and May in Iga. Your first impression might be to fear for your life, don’t. What you are feeling is the little samurai that lives inside each and every one of us. They will feel mighty at times, but not around ninjas.

Although it’s unknown if it’s known or unknown, dogs are sometimes said to be ninjas – dogjas in ninsguise. Nonetheless, there are dog cafes in existence within the city limits of Iga and they sell things in quantities! Although I was emotionally famished just walking through the door I still had enough strength to order a energy revitalizing piece of cake. Unfortunately, before I had the chance to take a bite of it a dangerous, hairy, and extremely small ninja came out of nowhere and ordered me to hand it over in nindog. I acquiesced to its request but ever so reluctantly to show it that I only did so because my training is not that great.

Even as I was giving up and devising a way to get back to my land of ninja-less honey, I had realized that I was being tracked the entire time. Luckily, my brain reappeared (also a ninja) and my newly thunked plan to remove me from my quandary worked like a tchotchke. Seeing as how I’m typing this I’m safe and everything is back to … ninja ninja ninja.

So as you might maybe possibly know, I now have my dogguns in Japan. The process is long, difficult and, if you don’t do it right, could lead to pent up frustration with little chance of release. I got the shots that she needed as well as the requisite shots, I waited the necessary 180 days, and I informed the airport of the coming meatfluff. After finishing my vacation in freedomville (it was wonderful), I boarded the plane with one dog sized set of organs (rest of the dog included for free!).

In Chicago I needed to change planes so I could switch (from United) to a non-shitty airline (JAL). While waiting for my ticket at the check-in counter I find out that they aren’t expecting my new bundle of whines and fur. You see, I had called both United and JAL and informed them that I will be carrying a very very hairy baby when I come back to Japan. United gave me no problem, but the girl working at JAL said that, even though I called, I didn’t have to since I had already contacted United. Well, there I was in Chicago with proof that she was quite mistaken. It’s a shame I had no way to tell her and then call her a n00b.

This check-in server’s ping sucks, the host is a fagg0t.

However, right after that I found out that I had non-sensually donkey punched myself (it’s possible!), I missed a stamp on one of the pages I had to give to the people in quarantine. Great. So since I now had a day layover I tried to get in touch with the local USDA and set up a time to get the stamps. They were full for the day so I had to wait until the next morning at 8:30 (and my plane left at 10:20). Not much time, but definitely possible. I wasn’t freaking out too much, but it definitely wasn’t as early as I would have liked.

The next morning I decide that I might as well go there as early as possible since I had nothing else to do. I thought that if I arrive when they just open they might be able to fit me in an earlier time slot and I could rest easier; at 10 minutes to 8:00, this happened. And it’s quite fortunate that it happened because I found out that my vet missed a signature and they wouldn’t stamp without a signature. I now had 90 minutes to find a vet open before 9:00am, go get a form signed, come back and get the forms stamped before making it to the airport. After some frantic calling, I found a place about a mile away that was open. I called a cab and made my way there.

An artists rendition of my taxi

My cab driver, Gunther, a naturalized citizen from Palestine, was a very nice guy that understood my predicament and helped me get to the vet (and to all my other destinations as well). The vet, while being cautious and methodical, filled out the vital areas as quickly as he could grasp what was needed of him.

At the USDA, I finally received the seals that I so desperately needed. At a price of $110, they were pointlessly expensive (it took them 5 minutes to do it) but I wasn’t in a mood to care at that point; I was running out of time and I preferred to not spend money on a new ticket to happy land. I arrived at the airport with little time to spare. It looked as though everything would be fine.

Or maybe this was just a ruse to pull me in to a bigger trap.