THE farmers of Mansfield Shire have long resorted to silent gestures when they feel no one is listening.
When frustration mounts and words fail, they sometimes turn to striking acts that deliver a clear message: listen.
One such message appeared on Sunday, 4 May 2025, at the intersection of the Midland Highway and the Midland Link, near the Barjarg Fire Station.
With the region in the midst of a total power blackout, passers-by reported seeing a large black dog strung from a tree — its body suspended by its tail and back legs.
Some viewed it as a grim warning.
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Others called it grotesque.
Conservationists soon joined the outcry, citing new research suggesting many wild dogs are actually pure dingoes.
For generations, farmers in the region have displayed fox carcasses on fences — a rural tradition dating back to old estate gamekeeping in Britain.
Some say it serves as a warning to neighbours that predators are active.
Others believe it was a way to show landowners what the keeper had culled.
There’s also the contested idea that the sight and smell of the dead fox might deter others.
But a dog is not a fox.
And in 2025, the distinction carries emotional weight.
To some residents, the incident crossed a line.
“You could clearly see a huge black dog hanging by its tail and back legs from the tree at the intersection,” said one local, who did not wish to be named.
“I understand that farmers need to protect their livestock, but the way it was showcased was disgusting.”
A second eyewitness echoed the concern.
“I believe it’s cruel," they said.
"People don’t need to be hanging animals in clear view of the road.
Shooting them is one thing — this is something else.”
Both expressed concern for the impact the display might have on children, though each acknowledged the threat wild dogs pose to local farms.
When asked whether they believed wild dogs should be protected from culling, one responded:
“I’ve never been in that situation," they said.
"I don’t know enough about it, and it’s not something I care to be informed about.”
The Courier contacted the farmer responsible for the display, who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity.
A seventh-generation landholder, their family has farmed in the Mansfield district since the 1850s.
They drove us across a 1000-acre swathe of land — one-third of their property — that borders Mt Samaria State Forest and now sits empty.
Wild dogs, they said, come from the bush nightly.
Electric fencing hasn’t stopped them.
Until recently, the farmer was a producer of award-winning Merino wool.
They’re now the second farmer known to the Courier to have abandoned Merinos altogether due to wild dog predation.
“We can’t use a third of our land anymore,” the farmer said.
“We’re spending nearly $10,000 a week on grain just to keep stock alive.”
The farmer showed us mauled sheep carcasses — some buried, others left where they fell.
“You find ewes with their hamstrings chewed out, lambs dead in the frost because their mothers ran off in panic,” they said.
“It’s constant.”
The farmer confirmed they had hung the dog, explaining the act was intended to make people understand the scale of the problem.
“People in town might see a dog — we see a killer.”
While wild dog culling is legal under Victorian law, the public display of carcasses is controversial and unregulated.
In 2016, a “fox fence” near Yapeen, south of Castlemaine, made headlines after tourists began stopping to photograph the strung-up animals.
That incident divided opinion and prompted a broader discussion about pest control, rural life, and animal welfare.
So too has the Barjarg dog.
In the past few weeks, dingo conservation groups have highlighted recent genetic studies indicating that many so-called “wild dogs” in the region are, in fact, pure or high-percentage dingoes rather than feral hybrids.
These groups argue that such findings should shift the conversation away from eradication and toward greater ecological understanding and protection of Australia’s apex native predator.
For some in town, the display is a bridge too far — an act of cruelty against a creature they see as a pet.
For many on the land, it’s a desperate attempt to draw attention to a silent crisis that continues to cost them dearly.
The incident has highlighted an uncomfortable divide in Mansfield: between those who live by the rhythms of the land and those who have settled in growing residential estates on its fringe.
Whether the act was a justified message or a misstep, it has started a conversation.
And that, perhaps, was the point.
