Dream of: 03 January 1991 "Voice Of The Bull"

My father and I were in a house where we were living. I seemed quite young (perhaps 10-12 years old). We had been arguing; finally my father told me I had to go somewhere in the car with him. When he left the house to get in his car, I was supposed to follow; but I dallied a while before going outside. When I reached the car, I found my father sitting in the front seat of the car, while two boys who were apparently my brothers were sitting in the back seat. I got into the car and we left.

We arrived at a place in the country where my father wanted to look at an old graveyard for an old grave of a woman whom he thought was buried there. We drove past a farmhouse and into a field. I saw a sign which gave the name of a graveyard, but my father didn't see it and drove past. After I told him what I had seen, he backed up all the way to a farmhouse and past a barn. As we passed the barn, a woman (perhaps 40 years old) was sitting inside behind what appeared to be a ticket counter. When I told my father what I had seen, he backed up to the counter.

We asked the woman about the grave. Apparently on the farm were a number of graveyards, all of which were tourist attractions. The woman looked on a list, found the name we had given her, then gave us directions to the grave.

When we headed off again, my father was now driving a tractor and I was sitting on a wagon hooked to the back of the tractor. Behind us was being pulled a second wagon, onto which another group of tourists climbed.

As we moved back through the field, we passed a herd of cows, among which was a large, red, muscular bull. I had a pellet in my hand which I threw at the bull and hit it. I thought that wasn't a nice thing to do, but I hadn't hurt the bull. The bull however seemed to take my action as a cue and began trying to attack me. At one point, trying to avoid the bull, I rolled off the wagon into some mud. Another time after the bull came right up on the wagon, I grabbed its large horns, wrestled it to the floor of the wagon and threw it off. The bull continued to return for more. I recalled that twice before in my life I had wrestled a bull to the ground like that.

I felt a bit guilty about what I was doing to the bull. I actually admired and didn't want to hurt the bull. Finally as the bull was standing next to the wagon again, it spoke to me. It had the voice of my brother Chris, but the voice also seemed a bit like Carolina's. The bull said I was being mean. I knew the bull was right, and I felt bad.

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