This post of Jason’s got me thinking about phobias and the ways that we’re horribly attracted to the things that frighten us most.

This issue is fresh in my mind because yesterday Dre and I had to take our rat, Jaamini, to the vet to get some antibiotics. She has a reoccurring upper respitory infection called Mycoplasmosis, and every few months she starts wheezing and grunting and although it sounds awfully cute, we know it’s time to get the medicine.

We have a new vet here in Seattle, and unlike our old LA vet, she gave us injectable antibiotics for Jaamini. I’m used to ratty antibiotics coming in a cough syrup-like base, measured out in a needle-less syringe and given orally.

These injectable antibiotics came in a special little test tube. We got little needles that you poke through a membrane of rubber on the cap of the tube. “Then you can use a non-needle syringe to give the antibiotics orally,” the vet explained.

“Should I mix the antibiotics with juice?” I asked, wondering if that would make it easier to get Jaamini to take the medicine.

“That works,” the vet said. “Or you can try injecting the antibiotics into a raisin. Sometimes that masks the taste enough for the rat not to mind.”

So, twice a day I pull out my worst enemy: a needle. I turn the antibiotic test tube upside down, and poke the needle into the rubber membrane cap, drawing out the correct amount of medication. I fastidiously avoid air bubbles.

Then I pluck a raisin from a bag and gently slide the needle’s tip into its wrinkly vein. As I press the plunger, I shiver with horror and a disturbing satisfaction. The raisin bloats with fluid, its wrinkles pushed outward by the injected antibiotics.

Then I feed the raisin to the rat, who totally loves it. She grunts and wheezes contentedly as she eats it, clearly not bothered by the vile-tasting fluid filling the little dehydrated sweet-sack.

I have been afraid of needles since my appendectomy in 1986, and now I find myself getting a delirious rush from turning raisins into my own little purple intravenous drug users. I can only wonder if this will dull my aichmophobia the next time I’m faced with a shot (”I am the raisin, I am the raisin”). Or does this mark a new heightened level of terror, in which I am a delegator of my own horror?

Watch out for evil nurse Ariel, victimizing innocent dried fruit — who’s next? Nurse Ariel offers this thought: stroking a phobia feels just like the elation immediately after a sneeze.