Deer Dogging Offers Family-Type Atmosphere

Scott Livingston (left) and long-time buddy Chris O’Neal take a look at an aerial map of the club before turning out dogs for a deer hunt in Ware County.

Though I write for GON monthly, this makes the first hunting story I’ve worked on in quite some time, and that’s not by accident. I’ll be upfront and honest. I’m not particularly fond of the direction the hunting sector as a whole is headed, and I haven’t been for a long time. Now, let me hit the brakes and say that’s my opinion and not the opinion of GON magazine, its advertisers or affiliates (maybe that’s a little too much legal mumbo jumbo). This is just me on my soapbox way down here in the swamps of south Georgia, far from the city lights in town, out in the woods where I belong.

Hunting has changed in the past 30 years, and I think most anyone involved with the sport would agree with that statement. My childhood memories of hunting involve early morning back corners of convenience stores where stories of giant bucks—many of which I now doubt the authenticity—were swapped over sausage biscuits and steaming cups of black coffee. However, everyone was in the sport together and had the same general goals. Put some meat in the deep freezer and hopefully hang a nice set of horns above the fireplace.

When your neighbor killed a big buck, you slapped him on the back and helped him drag it to the skinning rack. Sure, you wished it was you, but you weren’t mad it was him. I’m afraid those days are all but long gone. I’ve witnessed life-long friends have a falling out over a buck that one thought should have been given another year. I get online in various outdoor groups and watch hunters shame one another for anything from killing too small of a deer to giving out too much info about WMA property, and the list goes on and on. Folks just seem mad, and for me, hunting just isn’t as fun as it once was.

That’s where Scott Livingston comes into the picture. Scott lives a couple miles around the corner from me, a country block if you will, and we’ve known each other since way back in our school days, though that’s more years then I’d like to admit in print. Scott is an avid third-generation deer-dog hunter and spends just about every weekend he has during deer season running his pack of Walker dogs through the swamps and timber of Bennett Bay Hunting Club.

Scott’s wife Haley with a nice buck she killed in 2019.

This story first came to be on a dirt road near both of our homes on a summer evening. My wife Brandy and I were out riding when we bumped into Scott and his wife Haley, who were doing the same. Now for some of y’all who live in town this might be strange, but let me say it’s just something us country couples do. While Brandy and Haley talked on the other side of the truck about beauty pageants and who knows what else, Scott talked about getting his dogs ready for the upcoming deer season. What really drew me in about the conversation was an excitement about hunting that I haven’t seen in a lot of years.

I mentioned the possibility of a GON story, not knowing how Scott or the rest of his club members would feel about the subject.

“Anytime, brother. Make sure you bring your boy, too. All you gotta do is tell me y’all are coming, and I’ll load the dogs up,” Scott said with a smile.

Fast forward a few months later to a chilly November morning two days before this story’s deadline, and me and my son Colt are helping Scott load dogs in the box in anticipation of the day’s hunt. Scott keeps a dozen or so Walker dogs in his pens at a time, normally eight adult dogs and three or four pups.

After we finished getting everything loaded up for the hunt, we made a quick run for some convenience store biscuits and headed for Scott’s club that was situated a few miles up the dirt road. With the sun starting to climb above the trees, Scott switched on his cb radio and the cab of his pickup truck came to life. Between bites of his chicken biscuit, Colt laughed as members of the club jabbed back and forth with Scott, cracking jokes and giving each other a hard time.

“Most of your clubs draw stands in the morning and everyone goes to a set place to hunt. Out here we have about 10,000 acres and a small group of hunters, so we do things a little different,” Scott said.

Scott’s daughter Marlee patrols a woodline from the dog box.

Scott went on to explain that the general strategy was for everyone to ride around various parts of the club looking for fresh sign. When a good buck track is located, a pack of dogs is dropped on it. Once the dogs hit on a deer, everyone in the area hurries to circle that particular block, being sure to position themselves a safe distance from each other.

Scott’s good buddy, Chris O’Neal, was the first person to drop the tailgate and turn the hounds loose, and it didn’t take long for things to get interesting. Hurrying down a club road alongside a field adjacent to some train tracks, a coyote ran out in front of our truck before quickly turning and heading back in the bushes.

Scott parked his pickup truck and we listened to the dogs as their barking grew louder as the race lingered on. As they began to circle behind us in the block, we hurried down the path to get into position. Suddenly a giant bobcat, perhaps the biggest I’ve ever seen, bounded out of the woodline and made a beeline for the train tracks, eventually disappearing behind some old train cars.

“Them dogs must have just been running that ol’ bobcat,”said Scott.

While the dogs began to work another direction in the woods, Scott took a look at the shotgun Colt was holding.

“Son, can you even hold that big heavy thing up?” Scott asked as he took a look at my Stoeger pump-action shotgun Colt had leaned awkwardly over his shoulder.

“Swap me out for today, mine will be a lot easier for you to hold,” Scott said as he passed Colt his Benelli M2.

Armed with a lighter weapon and some new-found confidence, Colt stood by as Scott intently listened to the dogs that were quickly circling back around toward the front of the truck.

“They weren’t on that bobcat, them jokers are pushing a deer. Come on Colt, let’s hurry up here and get ready,” said Scott.

The barking grew to a level not too many decibels below deafening as Colt stood next to Scott with his gun on the ready. Suddenly, a doe jumped out of the bushes less than 50 yards in front of us. Colt quickly clicked his safety off, raised his shotgun and fired. The deer broke into a full stride after the first shot was unsuccessful.

“Shoot again, boy,” Scott said excitedly as Colt stood half confused by the events that had just taken place.

Boom! Another shot rang out, and it was evident that the deer in full stride 40 yards away was a fairly tough target to connect with. Though he missed, disappointment was nowhere visible on Colt’s face.

“I can’t believe I got to shoot at my first deer. Did you see that thing dad?” Colt said with a smile.

After helping catch the dogs that had run the deer, we proceeded to spend the next hour or so riding around the club talking with other members and inspecting various tracks that we came across on the roads. One thing that surprised me was just how happy everyone was to have us (especially Colt) joining in on the hunt that day.

Only a couple hours into the hunt, and we both felt like we’d been full-blown members our whole lives.

Scott gets Colt ready for a potential shot on a deer.

While we rode, I asked Scott how he felt about the pressure dog hunting clubs have fallen under in recent years from some who believe dog hunting should be outlawed.

“We’ve got to all come together on this thing. If you like still hunting and I like to do it with a dog, neither one of us is wrong. If they take dog hunting away, it isn’t me you’re hurting. I’ve been doing this my whole life, so it’s the next generation that’s gonna miss out,” Scott said, pointing to Colt.

A little while later, we located what looked to be a pretty fresh buck track that Scott decided to put his dogs on.

“What I do is start with my very best dog, and then a couple minutes later, I’ll put a couple more out of the box to get some more heat on him,” said Scott.

Scott turned loose his best dog, Chivez, first, and the hound quickly disappeared into the bushes. He said he would normally put his other top dog named Smoke on the track as well, but he is currently unable to hunt and is healing up from a recent snake bite on his foot.

Ten minutes later what had begun as a few echoing barks switched to a full-on race, and it was evident we had to catch up in a hurry. We jumped in Scott’s truck and headed around the block to try and stop the deer from cutting out the other side. When we stopped, Scott carefully examined the Garmin tracking unit on his dash.

“There right on him, and they’re about to cross right in front of us, come on Colt,” Scott said with excitement.

I stood alongside Scott and Colt as the barking and anticipation grew louder. Right as the dogs were approaching the dirt road, the barking changed direction.

“They’ll do that a lot of times to throw the dogs off. Now he’s circling back and he’s about to cut out the back side. I’m gonna try to cut him off if I can. Y’all stay here in case he turns back around,” Scott said as he began to race down the dirt road on foot.

Me and Colt watched with excitement as Scott covered the 75 yards or so on foot at a pace that I’m not sure Deion Sanders could have kept up with during his days with the Cowboys. A few minutes later the barking stopped. After 10 minutes or so, Scott came walking back up the dirt road.

“He got in that swamp and got away from them. That deep water will throw the dogs off of him,” said Scott.

We spent the next hour or two creeping along the roads of the club looking for more sign as we went, and talking with various members of the club as we proceeded. As the morning lingered on, the more I realized that hunting was the least of what was going on at Bennett Bay Hunting Club. It was something way bigger than that.

What I was seeing was what hunting looked like decades ago during my childhood. Men and women in the club from various walks of life and social backgrounds coming together on a Saturday morning with a common goal. Not just to kill deer but to be a team, or better yet, a family. A family that me and Colt were proud to get to be a part of on a cool November morning.

Scott Livingston and Tate Goble, 9, with a pup that Scott gave him the day of our hunt. Scott says that we have to keep dog hunting alive for the next generation.