Short for "hair of the dog that bit you", which was an old superstitious cure for a dog bite. Used mostly when having alcohol in hopes of relieving a hangover.

Also a 1975 Nazareth album, and a song (listed as being written by the entire band) from it, which was later covered by Guns 'n Roses on The Spaghetti Incident. Since the title is nowhere in the song lyrics, many people think of the song as "Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch" from its chorus. The album contains:

  1. Hair Of The Dog
  2. Miss Misery
  3. Love Hurts
  4. Changin' Times
  5. Beggars Day
  6. Rose In The Heather
  7. Whiskey Drinkin' Woman
  8. Please Don't Judas Me
The song:
Heartbreaker, soul shaker
I've been told about you
Steamroller, midnight stroller
What they've been saying must be true

Red hot mama
Velvet charmer
Time's come to pay your dues

Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch

Talkin' jivey, poison ivy
You ain't gonna cling to me
Man taker, born faker
I ain't so blind I can't see


Red hot mama
Velvet charmer
Time's come to pay your dues

Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch

(pipes solo)

Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a
A son of a bitch
Now you're messin' with a son of a bitch

Source: http://members.tripod.com/~nazarethman/hair.html

In Scotland it was a popular belief that a few hairs of the dog that bit you applied to the wound will prevent evil consequences. Applied to drinks, it means, if overnight you have indulged too freely, take a glass of the same wine next morning to soothe the nerves.

    "If this dog do you bite, soon as out of your bed, take a hair of the tail in the morning."

    "Take the hair, it's well written,
    Of the dog by which you're bitten;
    Work off one wine by his brother,
    And one labour with another ...
    Cook with cook, and strife with strife:
    Business with business, wife with wife."
    Athenæus (ascribed to Aristophanes).

    "There was a man, and he was wise,
    Who fell into a bramble-bush
    And scratched out both his eyes;
    And when his eyes were out, he then
    Jumped into the bramble-bush
    And scratched them in again."

Most claim that this hangover cure is a (possibly hopeful) superstition, but according to the New Scientist, there is actually some truth to it. Apparently, most beer, wine and spirits contain both ethanol and methanol. The human body metabolizes the ethanol first, then tries the nasty methanol which makes you feel ill. If you drink some more the morning after , the body will start metabolizing the new ethanol again. Of course, you have to deal with the that methanol sometime - this is the hangover cure for procrastinators

Greta plays with us in the sun and her tail wags frantically as we throw the ball to the downgraded side of the yard. It bounces into the trees and underbrush and she plunges into them, unmindful of the stickers and spiders. She emerges, happy and panting, scrambling back up the steep incline to meet us at the top.

Playful and happy, she shies away from my hand as I try to pry the sopping green tennis ball from her grassy teeth. She twists her head this way and that. My fingers are too small and weak to work any real progress against her. Eventually, she tires of the game and opens her mouth wide- she’s won. The ball drops and my hands are covered with wet, cut grass when I pick it up.

Her front legs drop, leaving her hind end and wagging tail at eye level with me. She watches only the ball as I draw back and fake a throw.

Again she bounds away from us down the incline, stops almost immediately, and turns back to me. She may be dumb, but not that dumb. Her nose prods around my back, her cold, wet snout smearing across the back of my hand.

I throw it quickly, before she can take it from me, and she bounds again down the hill. I love this dog.

“Ok,” My father says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “It’s time to go.”

Greta is a big German shepherd. She loves kids, she loves chasing cars. The kids riding bikes in front of the house are terrified of her growling pursuits. Her love is as big as she and we are too small. My brother and I are too delicate for her bounding, leaping form of love. She’s possessive and overly territorial - something I don’t understand yet. My parents fear that she will attack one of us worse one day; they fear that her excited leaps upon us will somehow hurt us or someone else. This is the last time I will ever play with her.

I don’t look at her the last time she bounds down the hill because my eyes are tearing up and I stare at the scabby bite mark on my arm. It was my fault that she bit me but I can’t convince my parents to listen. I don’t have the words to change the past. I’ve begged them to change their minds but they can’t listen to me. I don’t realize this at the time because this is so hard and I am so young.

“She might bite someone else.” They say. “We can’t take that chance. It would be a mistake.”

The dog runs back to us with the ball, again she wants to play the game of “take it, if you can.” I don’t play.

“C’mon, Girl.” My father says in a somber voice. He loops his fingers in her collar and clicks the leash into place.

Greta drops the ball and I pet her slowly. She turns and licks my face, the force of her body against me nearly topples me to the ground. I'm forced to step back against my father’s legs.

Greta’s coat always sheds tons of fur and I have a handful of it when my father leads her back to the car. When they are gone I smooth the tufts and go inside.

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