I have a bad case of rabies on the brain.

Maybe I should rephrase that. A sentence like that is bound to get me quarantined. But for the past couple of weeks thoughts of the foam-at-the-mouth doggy disease have jumped into my head frequently, and almost always when I’m on my bike.

The other night, I was riding to work after dinner, through an area where I’ve seen lots (gaggles? flocks? vats?) of bats dancing in the sky, and I was surprised to see a mouse-with-wings flying parallel to me. It was beelining right down the middle of the sidewalk.

Now, I’m no expert, but most bats I’ve seen tend to … flit. I don’t recall ever seeing one fly a straight line like this one. And it was zipping along, matching my exact speed, about shoulder height.

I don’t know how well a bat’s echolocation (how do I remember these things?) works to the side, but I figured it was blind to my presence. One quick flit to the left, and bat and boy would meet.

Then it hit me. The thought, that is. Not the bat.

What if said beastie has rabies?

On the same street but the opposite side a few weeks earlier, I was grinding away up a long hill at a speed that best could be described as something between glacial and geological, and I spied a fox crossing the road. Why, I don’t know.

But he disappeared in a yard, and as I approached, I suddenly envisioned Mr. Fox darting out, giving my exposed ankle a nasty nip, then returning to hiding.

Again: What if Foxy had rabies?

And then just the other night, I was a couple of blocks closer to home when a massive coyote crossed my path and gave me a look over its shoulder before bolting away.

Wile E. was big enough — we’re talking timberwolf-massive here — he could have knocked me off the bike and swallowed me whole. Or he could have given me a little chomp and … yep, more rabies.

Then I remembered weeks ago reading a story about a guy who became entangled with a bat while taking out his trash (again, the guy, not the bat). Sure enough, bat was rabid, and the trashman earned a nice, solitary sabbatical and injection regimen.

I read that just before riding home one night, and it must have stuck in my subconscious.

Similarly, a few years back, I read a story about the Smiley Face Killer, a serial killer who allegedly was killing young men. Smiley faces were found near where the victims were thought to have disappeared, and there was some link to a beater white van in each case.

Not long after reading that, I rode home one night and — sure enough — found myself with a white van on my tail. It followed me, slowly, for a couple of blocks, pulled up alongside, then quickly accelerated away.

I thought the behavior odd enough that I made note of the license-plate number and actually put it on a slip of paper in a conspicuous spot at home.

That way, I figured if I disappeared, the cops would come around, see the license-plate number, track the bad guy and, though I’d be dead, at least I could bask in the glow of posthumous vindication.

Similarly, if I start foaming at the mouth, tell the cops to look for a bat that flies straight.