Looney Tunes, Baby! (And, er… I think you mean “poltroon”.) 
Bring on the Porky!
See, I’m very territorial. Spider’s outside my window killing wasps? Fine, I’ll watch. But when he comes into my house, he dies. No bugs or critters belong in my house, but if they’re outside, I’ll leave em alone. Except roaches. They die at all times.
It was a hot-pink mouse-shaped cat toy. And Doktor Fluff didn’t freak me out with it, he just showed it to me to mess with me. Had the toy been more realistic, I might have jumped. But it’s hard to be scared of a hot-pink mouse.
Robin
Uh huh. Sure you weren’t scared 
If it makes you feel any better, my cat is scared of fake mice. 
My ex could handle spiders, mice and rats, but not lizards.
We were watching TV ages ago, and this cute little green guy scoots across the floor. He jumps up onto the back of the couch screaming, pointing, flailing and babbling about the horrible alien from space that just landed. I go pick up our visitor, open the door and let him out into the grass. Ex is still seriously heebee-jeebeed. I say “It’s GONE!” and he eventually settles down.
Oh and snakes. He’s seriously paranoid about snakes. He can’t watch the Discovery Channel or TLC since they always seem to be advertising some show about snakes. Doesn’t matter if it’s a baby garter or a 17 foot long python. If one appears on screen, he’ll cringe and dive under the cushions and ask “Is it gone?” :rolleyes:
Even snakeskin boots give him the willies.
My cousin met his future wife that way. She had a bat in her apartment, so she called a friend of hers, who called my cousin. He went, post haste, armed with a tennis racket or some such thing, and the rest is history. She’s due with their first kid in April.
Dear Penthouse,
I never thought it would happen to me, but it did. I got this call from a friend. This chick had a bat in her house. I agreed to help, picked up the tennis racket, and went to her place. When she answered the door, she said, “Oooh, what a big racket, is that for me?” But she wasn’t interested in tennis…
I think I’m in contention for the biggest wuss.
Many and many a year ago–I think about 1972–Mr. as_u_wish and I ran a bar. He was working a little later than I, and came home about 2:30 one ice cold March “morning,” trudging through foot high snow drifts to find the following scene:
The front door–wide open.
The back door–wide open.
Snow drifted about three inches deep two feet into the living room.
The cat with its head squeezed under the sofa, tail twitching madly.
His wife (that would be me) barricaded in the bedroom with towels stuffed under the door, wearing only her baby doll nigthties accessorized by Wellington boots, huddled on the bed with a broom stick, gibbering about this huge creature in the living room. "It was gray and long and I tried to get it, but I couldn’t, so I left the door open, hoping it would go out, and oh, honey!)
Being the wonderful man he is, he laughed uproariously, popped open (another) beer, and proceeded to the living room. I followed, trembling (it was VERY cold, what with the doors open and the snow and all), still wearing the boots.
Grasping the cat firmly, he pulled back the couch only to find…
wait for it…
the cutest, most precious, utterly terrified…
BABY BUNNY
The bunny was put outside (in the cold), the cat given some treats, the snow swept out of the house, and the wife (still me), mocked unmercifully.
The cat and the bunny have long ceased to be, but the mockery continues every spring.
As a chick who loves bats, has caught a field mouse(long story), and is a fearless spider trapper (ignoring shouts of “kill it! kill it!”) I’d like to poke fun at our fearful brothers and sisters. But I can’t. Why? Because finding one of these http://homepage.mac.com/cohora/nat/pill.html in the basement or outside will make me want to run away. I have no idea why, but they freak me out.
“That’s no ORDINARY rabbit!”
My six year old daughter takes care of the spiders in our house
shudders
Silver Serpentine, I can understand, considering the hour. 
As for the rattler in our back yard, had there not been 6 or 7 young kids in the yard, my own two included, and it not been less than 6ft from the little 4 yr old girl, I would have just chased it off into the park on the other side of the fence. But, being venomous and around those kids, it had to go.
GMRyujin, Thank you. I’m so glad we agree on those vile things. The only good one is a dead one. Oh, I forgot to mention; seems I am also allergic to the darn things. How’s that for irony? And I love your other comments, keeping me in stitches.
Wikkit, that’s a great story. See? Sometimes, being terrified of some critters can pay off.
As_u_wish, I understand completely. Heck, I did something very similar once; every light in the house on, me cowering in the middle of the couch, and I leaped out of my skin when my roommate came in the door from work. All because I was stupid enough to watch a certain movie by myself late at night. No, I’m not going to tell you what movie; my kids still laugh at me. Maybe later, if I can get up the nerve, I’ll tell my two r**** stories. Or all three. shudders Maybe.
Aaron and I went to the zoo Sunday. There was a prairie dog exhibit that had small, grey mice. I watched the wee beasties with great fascination. They were even kinda cute.
Of course, they were behind thick glass.
Robin
Reminds me of a particular scene with Traci Lords. . .
Several years ago, I lived in a horrible apartment in a VERY rural area – the apartment was part of a plant nursery that had been sectioned off and converted into apartments. Behind the building was a large field, and whenever the property owner mowed it, we ended up with field mice in the house. LOTS of them.
So: when my daughter was a wee one, around three, she came to me one day and informed me: “Mommy, I found a flat mousie!” Apparently, she’d been digging under the sofa cushions – perhaps she was having a craving for a green crayon to chew on, or looking for a vienna sausage she’d stashed there months before – so I dutifully trooped off to see what she was talking about. Couldn’t be a real mouse, right? Sure.
I lifted up the sofa cushion and beheld what was, indeed, a very flat mouse. This little bastard wasn’t just moderately squashed – he was absolutely, positively pancake-like. And had been in such a state for quite a while. I was dumbfounded. We’d never smelled the tell-tale scent of Eau de Dead Mouse, and the carcass was, to put it bluntly, all dried-up and thankfully not gooshy and gross.
I don’t quite know what led to Mr. Flat Mousie’s petrified state of mummified-ness, but I do know what led to his untimely demise: my husband and I are both big people. Like, seriously big people. I can only hope that when the end came for the mouse, it was quick and painless. Getting squashed under a great big butt is undoubtedly not a great way to go.
Ick.
That’s funny.
Mr. avabeth and I went to PetSmart Friday night to tip the groomer who took my cat on an emergency butt-shaving appointment Thursday night (don’t ask), and ended up by the rodents. He watched as I proceeded to have a five minute conversation with the giant rat they had for sale. Then he dragged me out when I begged to buy it and tried to take off for a sales rep to get the necessities.
Shoot, I’m hoping if we buy a house, it’ll HAVE mice so I can have a new pet.
Invite me over, you two. I’ll take any mice home with me and give it a good, happy home. (And yes, I’ll keep it away from the Wonder Cats).
Ava
MsRobyn related the squeeze ball/mouse story at AnitaVacation’s birthday party last night. Rodentia is not a problem around here, as the kitty population enjoys the toys that they can eat.
I don’t mind spiders, either-suck them up when vacuuming, but had to confess what does make me skeevy.
When you wake up and need to use the facilities, you’re running on maybe 2% total brain power, as the other parts of the brain grid come on line bit by bit. Steer to bathroom. Lift lid and seat. Aim fluid stream.
At this point all is well until a thousand legger the size of a 1949 Buick Roadmaster rushes out from under the baseboard, across the foot of the drowsy whizzer, causing nearly all solid objects in the Whizzatorium to get hosed. :eek:
Now 130% awake without caffiene, literally and figuratively pissed, I break out the cleaning supplies to restore cleanliness to the necessary room. Damned bug-I didn’t even drown him.
My wife hates insects. I mean hates them. She can’t even handle ladybugs, which I thought had some kind of universal anti-phobia clause. I remember once we nearly got in an accident because a bee flew in the car. I was driving. It wasn’t the bee that made me nearly swerve into oncoming traffic, it was her screams of panic and the spastic flailing of arms. I almost had a heart attack, and I didn’t even know what was wrong, at first.
Anyway, I love to hike up mountains, so one day we’re climbing up some hill in NH. It’s sunny, dry, and warm, and we decide to just hang out on a ledge with a nice view for a while. Not surprisingly, our PB&J sandwiches attract some bees. Some land near me, or on me, but I ignore them. My wife is beside me with her hat over her face soaking up the rays. Naturally, I don’t mention the bees, figuring the hysterics will really ruin the mood. So I’m sitting there, spacing out, when I hear the rapid sucking of breath next to me. My wife sees a bee on my leg. She makes strangled noises something like “buh brh muh buh”, and I mumble sharply “Jesus Christ, don’t freak out, just relax. Do you want it to sting me?” She can’t take it. She quickly shuffles on the ground to get as far away as she can from me and the bee. So I say, “Look, if I don’t mess with the bee, it’s not going to mess with me. See? It just flew off, no problem.” She puts her hand on her chest like she nearly had a massive myocardial infarction, and cautiously edges back to her sunning spot.
Maybe ten more minutes pass. I look over, and notice a bee on the upper side of her ankle, just above the line of her boot. I decided “better I tell her than she notice it first”, so I very cautiously say “Hon?” “Yeah?” she replies from under her hat (which is covering her face again). “OK. Honey? I want you to sit very still, OK?” “Why?” “Look, just calm down. If you sit still and don’t spaz out, nothing will happen. There’s a bee near your foot” She whips the hat off her face and looks towards her feet. “DON’T MOVE,” I rasp. “Just sit still. See if you can sit still.” She is sitting still, but she’s in a deep state of terror: “Getitoff getitoff getitoff getitoff getitoffffff!” “Sit still!” “Oh fuck getitoffme please.” “Just calm down. You’re fine” “No I’m NOT fucking fine, you get if off me!”
“See, it just flew away! Look, you did it!”
WHAP! She hits me with her hat. WHAP WHAP WHAP! “Hey! OW! What’re you-” “I TOLD you to get that bee OFF of me! How could you just sit there when-” “But…OW! Stop that! Honey, look! See? You didn’t get stung! You managed to sit there with a bee on you and not lose your fucking mind like you usually do! Aren’t you the least bit pleased with yourself?” WHAP! WHAPWHAPWHAP! “The NEXT TIME I HAVE A BEE ON ME, you GET IT THE FUCK OFF!” “But-” “NO buts!” “But you didn’t get stung, and you managed to-” “I don’t CARE! I HATE BEES!”
Hopeless. Not even interested in shedding her wimpyness, nor impressed with her moment of triumph over panic. No, just me in the doghouse for being a neglectful and disobedient husband.
Feh.
I hate bees, too. I’ve gotten stung twice when I was just leaving them alone after they landed on me. So now it’s war on the little stingy bastards.
Similar thing happened to my then teenaged daughter. I was at work and it was her job to do some designated cleaning. She called me at work and said, “Mom, I moved the hearth rug to vacuum and… and… there was a mouse under there, and it was FLAT!”