A plethora of plush

My living room floor is covered in stuffed animals, numerous Barbies and baby dolls. We sorted them in piles last weekend as we tried in vain to reduce the clutter in our home that continually congregates in my daughter's room. After a friend's house burned when stuffed animals spontaneously combusted in the attic, my husband has been on a mission. We tried dividing them into seasonal batches - bunnies, chicks and barnyard animals for Easter; teddies and holiday animals at Christmas, lovey-dovey toys around Valentines. But we still have too many to store in the house. I am virtually no help when it comes to deciding which animals will stay and which will go to live with someone else. For some reason, my brain retains the origin of each and every one of the dozens of creatures. I feel guilty parting with any of them as they were gifts from people we love. Where's King Solomon when you need him? Faith held up a small stuffed tan dog. "That means absolutely nothing to me," my husband declared. Faith didn't have a clue, so I intervened. The little pup was a baby shower gift from a dear friend from whom we got our dog. The little pup looks just like Daniel. It's a keeper. I'm not getting very far.