Wallie in the woods
The author says that, given the contested state of the presidential election, he and his dog, Wallie, are spending a lot more time in the woods.PHOTO PROVIDED BY RALPH GARDNER JR

GHENT, N.Y. — You’re probably familiar with the saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.”

I’d like to amend that for these interesting times. When the going gets tough, I get going into the woods. That was my strategy on Election Day.

After I’d voted, of course, I decided that my nervous energy could best be addressed by embarking on an extended walk with our dog, Wallie.

 Dogs have much to recommend them. But, one of their outstanding features is that they prefer to remain out of politics. Election Day is like any other day for them. And there’s nothing that excites our dog like ranging over fields and through forests.
She’s what I suppose you’d describe as a working dog — birds are what she’s bred to flush and retrieve. But, since we don’t hunt, she’d run the risk of lapsing into existential despair, or the canine equivalent, if we didn’t manufacture tasks for her to do.

One of these is chasing squirrels from our bird feeders, a responsibility she assumes with greater and lesser degrees of alacrity depending on the time of day (she prefers to sleep in) and the weather. Rain ain’t her thing.

Walking, or rather, galloping, through the woods, at any time of day or year, also gives her a sense of purpose that borders on joy. And us. Nothing quite provides the satisfaction of watching an animal who’s under the impression that it’s being useful. I’m not sure what it is that Wallie thinks she’s accomplishing, but I’m convinced it starts with her nose.

She feels obligated to pursue every scent and roll around on some of the more olfactorous ones, plunging neck first like an Olympic diver nailing a reverse 4½ somersault. As an indication of just how much nervous energy I brought to Election Day, once we completed our walk, I gave Wallie a bath, something I don’t recall having done since the halcyon days of the Obama administration.

Given the contested state of the election as I write this, Wallie and I have spent a lot more time in the woods. I probably shouldn’t belittle a dog’s desire to be handy, since it’s an impulse they often share with their human companions.

I assume there are probably few things as satisfying as hunting with a finely tuned dog. I wouldn’t know. I say this mostly because I’ve watched YouTube videos of Wallie’s breed — a Bracco Italiano — working with their owners, and with floral orchestral accompaniment, to flush fowl from the verdant hillsides of Lombardy. My Italian isn’t good enough to know what commands they’re executing, but the pride of their owners is palpable.

We erect no such challenges for Wallie. She merely runs ahead of us, often vanishing into the forest for extended periods, but her nose eventually leads her back like a guided missile.

Personally, I require more concrete proof of accomplishment, so I’ve decided to devote the next several days or weeks — however long it takes until the election is adjudicated — to repairing and replacing the trail markers I affixed to our trees a couple of years ago. There’s no pressing need for trail markers. I just thought they’d be cool.

I presumed upon my talented daughter to create a pileated woodpecker stencil. My dream was to affix the stencil to sequential tree trunks and spray it with red spray paint, leaving behind not just directions, but also a glorious likeness of our largest native woodpecker, except for the ivory-bill, which is most probably extinct. Unfortunately, the crimson paint streamed down the tree, making it look like a crime scene.

I made inquiries at a sign shop about the possibility of creating a festive trail marker. But, the cost of producing dozens, if not hundreds, of copies turned out to be prohibitive. So, I bought a sheet of plywood and cut it, or rather hired someone to cut it, into 5-inch squares. Then I meticulously painted each square bright red.

Turns out, it’s called plywood for a reason. After a couple of seasons of challenging New England weather, it begins to separate into its component parts and then disintegrate completely.

That would be unfortunate were it not that the damage presents me a distracting opportunity to perform an unnecessary chore amid recounts, protests and a potential coup d’état.

 My plan is to first retire to the woods with Wallie, a pocketful of nails and a can of paint. Assuming I don’t stumble on a downed limb or slippery tree root, of which there are an abundance hidden under the fallen autumn leaves, and spill the paint all over myself, I’m planning to refurbish and repaint the extant trail markers.

But, that’s only a preliminary part of the process, and one that won’t get me much past Nevada calling the contest for one candidate or another. I’m also coating additional markers in my basement and plan to add them to stretches of the trail where hikers run the risk of straying into the wild, never to be seen again.

This is unlikely, since anybody other than us would be trespassing and we already know the way. Nonetheless, time is of the essence. No, not because the Electoral College meets in mid-December. Because hunting season starts Nov. 22 in our neck of the woods. As much as I enjoy my trail markers, they’re really not worth the risk of being mistaken for venison.

Ralph Gardner Jr. is a journalist whose work has appeared in The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times and The New Yorker. He can be reached at ralph@ralphgardner.com.