Backroads and Bobtails
Better watch 'em. They'll lie to you.
by Bob Kornegay

A friend of mine has a favorite saying he uses to describe someone who is prone to exaggerate or is untruthful. "Sonofagun's lyin' like a dog," he says.

I used to chide him for saying that. I mean, didn't it do dogs a disservice to designate them similes for liars? Heck, dogs are man's best friend. How could a trusty, true-blue dog, just chock-full of unconditional love, lie to you?

Well, over the past 30 years, I've learned that dogs can, and often, do just that. Lie to you, I mean. And not just little bitty white lies, either. Oh no. They seem fondest of the big old bald-faced ones. Then, incredibly, they still expect you to take them home, feed them, and scratch behind their ears.

Take coonhounds, for instance. I remember once trusting the nose of a particular bluetick enough to crawl on my belly into a North Florida palmetto thicket, for the purpose of flushing out the ringtail he said was hiding there.

'Twas no coon concealed in that tangled undergrowth, but a bobcat, cornered and highly p.o.'d. Take it from me; bobcats have no sense of humor, especially when cornered.

The skunk another hound of my acquaintance "treed" in a gopher tortoise hole was far less painful, but it surely took a lot longer to wash off. Several days, as I (and a number of noseholding buddies) recall.

One coon dog I knew led me across a South Alabama creek one night as the temperature hovered around 35 degrees. Of course, the water was not quite as shallow as I first thought. When I resurfaced, I clambered up the bank and raced to the tree where Ol' High Doctor was baying for all he was worth. Turned out that was no great amount. There was no coon, no nothing. Almost froze my hiney off. High Doctor, a pricey black and tan, offered not a single apology.

Once I was lied to by an entire pack of beagles. After striking a hot trail, the "rabbit" led them a lengthy and furious chase while I tensely waited for the dogs to bring it back around to me. The quarry that eventually burst from the thicket in front of me was no cottontail, but a huge feral tomcat that took a lock-clawed swipe at my britches leg as he ran by and scared me so badly I had to stop hunting for the day, no longer trusting myself with a loaded shotgun around those cuss-fired lying dogs.

But hounds aren't the only canine liars. Bird dogs can be champion prevaricators as well.

I once had a buddy named Don, a kind and generous soul who also happened to be a quail-hunting addict. Don never lied. He was honest to a fault. Lord knows what got into those two Brittannies of his.

I once saw those dogs lock down and point a large brushpile, a mass of pine tops, cast-off logs, and other clear-cut debris. A quail covert? Oh, no. The biggest whitetail buck in Southwest Georgia was bedded down in there. I turned my ankle and almost broke my neck getting out of his way after Don, who weighed better than 300 pounds, fell through the brushpile and ran him out.

Later, these same Britts pointed a flock of meadowlarks, two rabbits, a roadkill 'possum, and a diamondback rattlesnake I nearly stepped on trying to "flush." Don shot the rattler over my vehement protests. If we'd just left him alone, I believe, he could have easily gotten both of those lying mutts.

In my experience, there is but one dog, the Labrador retriever, that comports itself with total honesty. Never once have I had a Lab lie to me. Making no lame excuses or leading one on, they just look a fella in the eye with that expression that says, "Nope, water's too cold today," "Mark what? You ain't gonna hit it," or "Whaddaya mean I can't eat this bird? I fetched it."

I don't own any hunting dogs of my own anymore, and I'm loath, too, to hunt with someone else's. I'm too old to put up with the canine bull-shooting and not as patient as I once was. A loaded 12-gauge is much too tempting these days.

Yep, thinking on it, "Lying like a dog," is a very astute statement after all.