I firmly believe that everything happens for a reason, but, at 9:45 a.m. on Nov. 10 on a gravel road in Carthage, I had Sirius Black doubts (those of you up on Harry Potter denizens will appreciate that pun further down).

It was one of those days.

Less than 20 minutes earlier on the Friday that I planned to leave work early to meet my wife, sister-in-law, and first-time-pregnant stepdaughter in Massachusetts, a Jay firetruck screams past my house, headed through East Dixfield village.

If you’re anything but an emergency responder or me, you’d go about your business.

Me, who just moments before, got out of bed, caught my foot in the blanket and crashed to the floor, I turn on my portable police scanner.

I then call our Rumford bureau office manager to find out where Jay is headed, and start shimmying into my previously laid-out clothing like a firefighter suiting up. Hey, you never know when you’ve got to move fast.

“Structure fire. Winter Hill Road. Carthage,” she says.

I grab a bowl of cereal to drink on the way, not realizing that Winter Hill Road leaves Route 2 off Morrison Hill a short ways from East Dixfield. I’m there before I know it.

While parking my van nearby, my quick breakfast goes flying all over me and the dash.

After that, I’m in the mood that nothing short of a mortal wound is going to keep me from getting to the fire to gather information to write a story, that I hope, will help people help people in need.

Kind of like the embattled Army sergeant in the war movies who keeps getting dinged, but stays focused on the objective.

That was me at 9:45 a.m. on Nov. 10, when just after striding past a driveway on Winter Hill Road, I felt a sharp, intense pain in my right calf muscle.

Stopping, twisting, and suddenly looking down, I see a dog hanging off the back of my leg.

There was no warning before the pain, no barking, nothing. Ambushed, by what I’d later learn was a pregnant, year-old pit bull-beagle mix that had broken free of its mooring.

I can’t recall ever being bitten by man’s best friend. A horse, yes. A bird, a cat, a rabbit, a ferret, and a lizard, but never a dog. I’ve always had such good rapport with dogs, growing up with many as pets.

I didn’t cry or fall to the ground in agony. No, I got angry like the Army sergeant who throws his empty pistol at the approaching German Panzer tank.

Yelling and waving my arms made the dog release and retreat, despite two more lunges. I then turned and limped up the road to the fire, feeling blood trickling down my leg and ignoring the pain.

It was only after I’d taken photographs, got the story details, and notified the office I’d been bitten by a dog, that reality set in.

“Just your luck, Terry, you’ve probably got rabies. Was that a pit bull? Why me?”

Like I said, everything happens for a reason.

Thankfully, the sniper dog’s owner showed me that its rabies vaccination was still effective.

Treated at Rumford Hospital and getting a tetanus-like shot, I was told to start getting an antibiotic – amoxicillin trihydrate potassium clavulanate – into me ASAP, which I did.

Long story short, I file my story and photographs, enjoy the family gathering and baby shower, then, end up taking my wife to her Massachusetts doctor, who says her flu is now bronchitis, and he prescribes the same amox I’m taking for the dog bite.

I tell him this, and he rattles off the whole name I mentioned above, then, proceeds to tell us this fascinating story about it, and how it kills penicillin-resistant bacteria.

All of which doesn’t mean much until you factor in the part where I get the flu from my wife, miss work for most of last week, but, because of the amox for the dog bite, don’t get the pneumonia or bronchitis I usually get when I get the flu.

Of course, I’m not entirely cured. I have these intense cravings for Milk-Bones, and I’m dreading the next full moon.