Two of us, me and I don't know who else, have climbed into the field with dad's big old bull Curly (*). The bull is docile, but harasses and pressures us enough with his sheer bulk that we climb over the fence out of his field. Then he seems to behave victoriously, like he has done his bullish job to chase us out.

(*) Curly has been dead for many years, but was a fixture for many years after we got back from New Zealand in the 70's. I haven't thought about him in years and years, and don't think I could have remembered his name. But after the dream, it was clear as day, until some point the next day where suddenly I could remember only vaguely, and "Curly" sounded wrong. But I'm pretty sure it is correct, after some further brain exercise. He was named by our neighbor Tammy Newell while we were in New Zealand, and she told us she named him that because of the curly hairs on his face. She also called him "Munchmouth", but "Curly" stuck, and was the name everybody used, even my dad, for many years.