The Whole Nine Yards

The War of the Woofs!

No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.

H.G. Wells in The War of the Worlds

The Eve of War

That's right! We've been watching you. Studying you, and just a short time ago, we called you to war! The battleground had been chosen. Groundwork had been laid. An environment suited to all. Anticipation charged us as we poured in from all directions. This would be a memorable showdown.

As warriors and generals scurried about readying the field of battle, selecting the most advantageous positions from which to advance and retreat, more came. More positions were taken, more plans were drawn and the battleground took shape. They were traveling quickly. Great distances were covered reaching the site, and all warriors would need to be fresh for battle. So as the last of them trickled off to their camps, the lights were doused and the battlefield was secured.

War

Awakening early still weary from travel, these adventurers and warriors prepared for the day ahead. Perhaps yet unaware of the scope of this venture, they practice their battle rituals … donning their camp colours, loading their bodies with energy and their weapons with ammunition, leaving little bits of propaganda behind to spur the imaginations of those yet unmoved. This would be a glorious day for war!

Once again, they arrived at the battlefield. Positions had been clearly marked, rules of war confirmed, judges in place. “Judges in war?“ you might ask. Yes, this war has gone on before. There are rules and judges. But that has never lessened the intensity of the fray. Once again, this war would rock the grounds.

Conflict raged for two days. Warrior cries carried in the wind, drawing more players in and sending some running in other directions. Lights flashed, whistles were blown, flags raised and dropped, booty won and lost as we rushed in and out of the field. Finally, exhausted, some gains, some losses, the clash was halted. A truce called … until next year.

Next Year! At the War of the Woofs we’ll be ready. We’re watching you. Studying you. We’ll be ready for you.

The Dogs of Woof Wars