A few years ago, I made a deal with a fox. I know, I know . . . deals with foxes, if you've read any of Aesop’s fables, are legendarily bad. But this fox seemed different. I found her one evening curled up in a corner of a stall in our barn, and when I approached her, instead of running away, she lifted her head, gave me a pitiful stare, then tucked her head back beneath what was left of her tail. You see, this fox was completely covered in mange, and didn’t have much left in the way of a coat.

And so ensued several minutes of inner turmoil and debate. Curing mange is not a big deal – all I had to do was put some invermectin in a dish of cat food and feed it to her and she would clear up in a few weeks.

But . . . cure a fox? I’ve had dealings with foxes before. A few years back one got at my rooster, Gobo, in broad daylight. Gobo was the sweetest little gray pollish rooster ever, who rode around the farm on my shoulder and loved everyone. In my heart I knew he had survived the fox, and my brother and I searched the neighborhood for days, hanging posters and putting an article in the paper. We never found him, but I later learned a neighbor had taken him in and eventually eaten him (I have never spoken with that man again . . . he absolutely knew Gobo was a family pet and I only utter his name while combining it with multiple cuss words.)

So, did I cure the fox or let it die? There wasn’t much life left in the poor thing. However, being a sucker for a sick animal, I got her attention again and cut the deal – I would give her the cure, but she had to promise to leave my poultry alone forever and ever. She agreed, I brought her a dish of “cure” and by morning she had disappeared (we’ll talk more about my issues with hearing animal voices at another time.) I saw her later that summer looking fluffy and spry, and no, I have never again had an issue with foxes and poultry (just neighbor problems . . . talk about poor Gobo jumping out of the frying pan into the fire . . . or vice-versa . . . grrrrrrr . . .)

These are the moments when you know you live in an atypical place; while we are barely 15 minutes from New Haven, we are incredibly rural out here in the Bethwood area. Up at the very top of the hill in Bethany, it’s possibly the most “country” area of all. Our lifestyle causes embarrassing moments for many of us, and very few people who live in the more ordinary suburban areas can understand the vast differences between our hometowns and theirs.

For example, yesterday I was in West Haven meeting with my boss when I got a phone call from the farm. I never know if it’s an animal-oriented emergency, so I took the call from Ashley, my horse trainer.

“There’s a coyote in the big boy’s paddock,” Ashley said, calling our horses by their group names. “And it’s not going away. Now it’s in with the big girls!”

“A coyote won’t bother the horses,” I said, “but the hens are out in the yard near our house. We need someone to go lock them up.”

“I’m waving buckets at it and it’s still not leaving!” Ashley said.

“OK, get the hens in. The ducks are fenced in so they’ll be OK.”

I looked up at my boss, who apparently had not yet witnessed a conversation quite like that at any other meeting with an editor.

How could I explain it? That I’d cut a good deal with a fox, but had made no such deal yet with a coyote? I opted to say nothing and get back to business, but there was that “look” on his face . . .

I got an email this week from a Bethany resident who had watched a bobcat skulk into her yard, hunt down a squirrel, catch it and eat it before her eyes. (Where, oh where are those pictures I begged you for?) Another resident recently told me about the time she and her daughter spotted a bear on Rt. 69.

“Did you get a picture?” I asked. “Or better yet, a video?!”

“Well, no, of course not,” she replied. “My daughter was scared to death and made me drive away fast.”

Grrrrrrr. It’s just a bear  . . . and it is Bethany . . . these things need to be documented!

And so I begin a new series of columns called Only in Bethwood. As other residents of this area know, we live in an alternate universe that could not be duplicated anywhere outside of Hooterville, which is a town from a silly 1960s TV comedy that does not exist, while Bethwood is a reality, despite the fact that reality TV is avoiding my pleas to come tape “The Real Housewives of Bethany.”

So I say, let’s convince them to come find us! We’ll just keep posting stories about our “reality” and maybe a producer will come to his/her senses and kick those boring Kardashians to the curb and bring us on board instead.

While I have multiple stories of Bethwood “reality” happening every day of the week, I’m seeking input from other Bethwoodians. Forget Oprah Winfrey's "Aha!" moments. I want to know about your "Bethwood Moments." Were you around on the day the Durley’s donkies got out and no one could catch them so the neighbors had to post big cardboard signs declaring, “LOOSE DONKEYS – DRIVE SLOW!”??? Were you at the horse show when the sheep got loose from their pen and ran into the show ring and the border collies had to be called in to save the day?

Tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine, and I know for a fact, we will never be as boring as those Armenian fashionistas out in L.A., and lord knows, I hope to leave you giggling more often than searching for a tissue to dry your eyes.

Editor Kathleen Schurman owns Locket's Meadow Farm in Bethany. When she is not editing or writing, she is up to in the barn handling a manure fork.