Rodents (specifically, mice). Gathered together for a group shot.
From the time I was a wee, six-pound newborn until I was well into adulthood and had wee babes of my own, my dad called me, "Mouse." Consequently, I have a small collection. Given the number of my years and the occasions within those years, multiplied by many a gift-giver, I think the collection is quite under control -- subdued, even.
That one with the pink ears and nose was an art class creation of Madeleine's some years ago. The "mother and child" one (I know, they're mice) was a gift from my mom. There are three in the back that are porcelain and made by Grandma.
One of them has had a chip on his ear practically from day one. Some of them have tail issues.
I have not dug out the Christmas decorations -- the little "gumdrop" one with the "licorice" tail and "slivered almond" ears was never put away -- or any of the Mickey Mouse stuff (there would be that -- and why not, he's a cute little rodent) -- or coffee mugs. For the most part, these are just sprinkled throughout the house -- one or two tucked in with the depression glass, some on a bookshelf, one in the upstairs bathroom, another on my dresser.
I realized, several years ago, that Dad had not called me "Mouse" in quite some time. I don't really know when or why he stopped. I was surprised, in our last phone conversation, to hear it.