THE black dog at a crossroads has long been a portent of death.
Folklore paints a frightful image of the beast with slavering jaws, night-black fur and bright hellfire eyes.
And it is said, where the black dog goes death follows.
At the corner of Mt Buller Road and Buttercup Road on a warm April afternoon in High Country, half the world away from the dark and dreary pit and mill villages that conce...
