OK, I admit it. I am squeamish. I don’t like bugs, creepy crawlies, birds and other critters that fly, rodents, vermin and the like.

I don’t like spiders, but I can dispatch one if need be.

But put a mouse in my house, I just about lose my mind. I’m allergic to cats, or I would have the best mouser I could find.

I have no idea why the little critters get to me like they do. Years ago, living in the country and parking under a large tree in the driveway, I was paranoid that I would get a mouse in my car.

One day, before Sheetz opened in Bradford, we went on a fall road trip, stopping in Port Allegany at the Sheetz there. We parked in the lot and were enjoying some fries when I noticed movement on the windshield.

A mouse was standing on my windshield wiper. Passersby must have thought I saw Bigfoot or perhaps a Sharknado for the alarm I sounded. For some reason, it didn’t occur to me to turn the wipers on, and have them naturally escort the little fellow away from the vehicle. For the next week, I was paranoid that it would get inside the car and run up my leg while I was driving.

What? It could happen.

A few nights ago, my sister and I were watching television when we heard a chirping noise. We couldn’t locate it right away, and turned off the sound and were looking around. I walked out of the living room to see if I could still hear it, and heard my sister cry out.

A tiny little mouse came down through a hole in a ceiling tile and landed on the wooden trim above a bookcase — right behind my chair. As we watched, her with amusement and me with growing horror, the little guy leaped down and scurried across the floor — thankfully, away from me.

It ran into the front hall near the door, with my sister in pursuit.

Cue the Benny Hill music.

For the next half hour, two grown women tried to corner the little thing. Well, truthfully, my sister tried to corner it as I guarded the doorway to the living room with a broom — like a terrified and slightly crazed hockey goalie.

Finally, the mouse ran onto a pile of jackets tossed on a chair inside the door. My sister swung a cane; the mouse flew through the air, as if a dove in a John Woo movie (cue the background explosions). It landed on the floor and didn’t move. It might have been stunned; I didn’t check for a pulse.

My sister hurriedly opened the front door and pushed the little fellow into the yard.

As she was congratulating herself, my daughter walked in, looked at both of us like we were crazy, handed us mouse traps and walked away.

Hmm. Why didn’t we think of that?

My sister says she thinks we have other mice in the house, coming in around the kitchen stove. So she set a trap and went about her business.

Later on, I was reading and listening to music when I heard a very loud chirping noise. Oh, no. Not again.

I turned on the kitchen light. There was a mouse with his left leg in the trap — it was still alive. I panicked.

My daughter calmly walked in, put the mouse out of its misery, loaded it onto a dust pan and disposed of it — you know, like an adult would.

There are now three traps surrounding the stove, and I can’t stop looking at the hole in the ceiling tile.

When she sees me looking, my daughter holds up a stuffed Mickey Mouse, and chides me in a falsetto.

The lesson here, I suppose, is not to sweat the small stuff. Unless it’s a mouse — the non-animated kind.

Then, by all means, panic. I know I would.

(Schellhammer is the Era’s associate editor. She can be reached at marcie@bradfordera.com)