It was the morning of Friday the 13th and it started like any other normal day — which is a polite way of saying I was about to get smacked with the brutal harshness of bush life.

I was up with the dawn, or nearly — padding into the kitchen while the rest of the world was still snuggled under its covers.

The wood stove had kept the icy grip of the night at bay, ticking quietly to itself in a kind of low, contented purr.

My wireless ‘weatherstation’ said that outside it was a brisk zero degrees.

To put it in more dramatic terms: freezing, literal freezing.

The kind of cold that makes your hands stiff and your breath hang in the air like tiny clouds.

Once outside, the first glimmer of light was just creeping through the bushland, washing everything in a purple-black silhouette.

Still, the day was full of promise.

There were creatures to care for, routines to follow — a kind of peaceful rhythm that has anchored me through countless mornings.

I pulled on my thick gloves (yes, the kind that make you feel more like a deep-sea diver than a farmer), tugged my hat down over my ears, and made my first stop at the chicken pen.

The girls were already up and scratching for their breakfast, making their charming little “brrrk brrrk” sounds, a chorus of contentedness against the icy silence.

The cattle were waiting at their usual spots, big, snorting creatures who seemed pleased to see me, and not just because I came bearing food.

My hands were freezing, despite the gloves, fingers stiffening by the minute, but this is all part of the deal.

Then I made my way toward the sheep.

That’s when the peace and serenity fell away faster than my body temperature at a midnight polar plunge.

Clearly, very clearly, we’d had a pack of wild dogs in the paddock overnight.

One sheep, a big, strong girl, had been dragged, injured, and eaten alive.

There are many sights you become tough to when you live this close to nature — but this…

This was a gut-punch.

I put her down quickly, not letting her suffer a moment more.

The icy ground was marked by a trail of bloody scuffle; a dramatic path made by a large sheep trying to resist whatever was tearing into her.

It must have taken a number of dogs to bring her down and drag her nearly ten meters across the hard earth.

As I fed the rest of the sheep, I noticed we were missing another.

The silence seemed heavy in that moment; a painful contrast to the bustling peace of just an hour earlier.

Word got around quickly — as locals shared their own ‘wild dog’ horror stories.

One poor guy said he’s lost 16 sheep is three weeks!

A friend insisted on staying overnight in the paddock to try and destroy the pack when it came back.

After all, we had the carcass to lure them in...

He came equipped with sophisticated night-vision gear — something a bit more advanced than my old rifle and a torch.

But unfortunately, the dogs remained elusive.

For days afterwards I made it a habit to venture outside at 2:30 a.m. and again at 5:00 a.m. a powerful torch in hand, to check for movement.

I saw wombats, quiet spectators to it all, who were more interested in their nocturnal foraging than in causing trouble, an abundance of rabbits, and a few foxes.

But not a single wild dog crossed into view.

Meanwhile, during the day, from the valley below the paddocks, we’d hear their chorus — a pack of wild dogs howling, a mischievous, piercing serenade meant to taunt me, the other landholders, and anyone else within range.

The message was clear "we’re here and you’ll never find us."

The dogs’ day will come.

Hopefully, sooner rather than later!

Until then, we remain vigilant — a little weary, a little frustrated, but undeterred.

After all, this land and these animals are worth protecting.

Cold hands, tough nights, wild creatures — it’s all part of life here.

But I’d be a lot happier if we were battling, say, a mischievous band of chickens instead of a pack of wild dogs.

The chickens aren’t nearly as clever — or as dramatic — when it comes to causing trouble.