You’ve probably been asking yourselves, “Where do The Raging Nerds live?”

Well, for a couple of years now, we’ve lived in a house on the edge of a canyon in the community of Scripps Ranch, in San Diego, California. When we first moved in, we laughed—okay, we scoffed, snorted, and made other ugly noises (we’re nerds, remember?)—at the strategically located sign that reads “Scripps Ranch—Country Living.”

Because Scripps Ranch is the epitome of suburbia, in all its MacMansion glory.

Some neighborhoods are row after row of the same adobe-colored stucco house, although a few have been reversed and others are cunningly turned to the side to hoodwink you into believing they are unique. Other areas contain a selection of three or four models with different building materials, shutters, or front doors to fool the eye.

Then there are neighborhoods like this one, where the houses really do vary, sometimes to an alarming extent. One looks like it belongs in Miami, complete with teal and metal accents. Ex-pats from Tuscany and Tudor England are tucked in among “California Contemporaries.” There’s even a pink villa, its walkway flanked by two stone lions. None of them are smaller than 4,000 square feet.

And from none of the houses in Scripps Ranch can you imagine a fellow in a plaid shirt and overalls emerging, an axe over his shoulder, ready to chop a cord of wood before moseyin’ over to the barn to milk his cows and see to his horses.

Still, it turns out there is country living, and then there is living in the country. In addition to the near-constant danger of wildfire, we are surrounded by daily reminders that a wilderness cedes ground to humans only reluctantly.

At night, we hear the whisper of an owl’s wings as it swoops toward its prey; we are charmed by the squeaks of bats, the ribbets of frogs, the kree-karee of a hawk. We are often startled awake by a coyote chorus, their wails, yips, and ululations shattering the darkness as they travel through the canyon. (And just the other day I had to slow my car as one of these beautiful creatures loped across the street and disappeared between two houses.)

In the morning, we are greeted by fresh gifts from the local rabbits, and sometimes by the sight of a bobbing cotton tail, as one of them hops out of sight.

There are hummingbirds and snakes and black widow spiders. There are skunks and possums and rodents of all sorts; there are butterflies and bees. This year we made the acquaintance of an insect we hadn’t seen before, the tarantula hawk (but fortunately, there have been no sightings of actual tarantulas).

Lizards do push-ups on our walls. Crows study us carefully from the trees, cawing eerily and stealing pita bread and tsatsiki sauce from our garbage cans.

The other night, our barbeque station was decorated by a moth with a 3.5-inch wing span. It made me wonder if barbeque stations are the normal prey of giant moths. Anyone know?

Neighbors warn each other if they’ve seen rattle snakes, and dog owners seriously consider rattle snake vaccines for their pets (if your dog is bitten, you still need to take it to the vet, but the vaccine buys you more time and can often reduce the amount of the very expensive anti-venom your dog will need.)

Last month we had to replace the wiring in one of our cars, which cost us a cool $800. “Rodent damage,” the mechanic told us. We assumed rats or mice, and maybe that was part of the problem. But on one recent morning as we stood outside near my car, we heard a suspicious noise and looked at each other with “ruh-roh” expressions. Jon said, “You better pop the hood.” So I did, he unlatched it, and—scurry, scurry, pop—a RABBIT wriggled out between the top of the hood and the windshield.

We’re afraid to open the hood of the other car, the one that’s been sitting out front for several weeks. What will burst forth—a conga line of cougars? breakdancing baboons? rampaging rhinoceri?

When you’re living in the country, sometimes it’s better to play it safe. We’re keeping the hood closed.