With the addition of Rocky to the Bedlam Farm family, the Bedlam Farm Men’s Club has grown mightier and more diverse, a counterpoint to the many strong female spirits around me. And we need them. My wife is dreaming of other men!

The men’s club is growing. Now there is me, Simon, Red, Strut and Rocky. A donkey with bad legs, a bald, aging farmer with bad knees, a blind pony, an officious if self-absorbed preening rooster and a strange workaholic border collie from Ireland given to spectacular outruns across state lines. No, really. We are a mighty army.  Sylvester Stallone learned this this morning.

My former girlfriend woke up at 5 a.m. to advise of me of her latest dream – she has long and complex dreams and remembers every detail and relates every detail –  this morning she told me she dreamed that Sylvester Stallone, wearing a “Kiss My Ass” T-shirt,  shades and a beret, pulled up to her in a big car and said “I love you.”

Why is she dreaming of other men, I wondered, testosterone stirring?  The former girlfriend claims she put her hand out to the muscle-bound movie star and said “Don’t Even!” and rejected this advance.  But I was outraged.  She wasn’t interested, she said. She said she was appalled.

But even though we are surrounded by powerful women, we have our pride.  I summoned the Bedlam Farm Men’s Club. We are men, I reminded everyone, no matter how dominated we all are. When trouble comes, we have to behave like jerks! No man is entering my wife’s dreams with intentions. So I had my own dream, just minutes later.

The other “Rocky,” almost surely the namesake of our new equine “Rocky,” had thrown down a gauntlet, entered my private space, leered at my woman. I wanted to beat my chest, but it would make me cough, allergies and all.  Simon brayed. Strut crowed. Rocky ran and whinnied. Red dashed in circles, ran into a tree,  and did an outrun all the way to Saratoga and back.  We set out in our own dream.

We tracked Stallone down. It was sunny, clear, a busy city street.  People fled at the sight of a donkey, a farmer/writer, a blind pony with a rooster on his back advancing. I could see no one had ever seen anything like it.  They hid under cars, screamed, fled into doorways.

Stallone was sitting on a bench in a park wearing the same sunglasses and a beret as Maria had described.  His big black SUV was parked nearby. There were bodyguards with machine-guns inside, I imagined. Stallone was signing autographs. Plus he was Sly Stallone, I could see that. I loved “Rocky I.” Even Rambo. (Not so much). We hid behind a tree and crept down.

I was riding Rocky, or leading him, actually.  Simon, being a donkey, refused to be ridden, but came along. Strut rode on Simon’s back. Red did his big herding crouch and stalked the bench. “Hey Rambo!,” I shouted, the secret code. “This will be a lesson for you. Stay away from my wife’s dreams!”

Then it was time to advance. Like Lord Nelson, I stood to full height and advanced. No matter what happened, they would speak well of our army, the way we comported ourselves.

“Come bye!” I whispered. Red vanished out into the fields out of sight. “No, wait, Red. Here! Here!” I said. Oh, well, he would come around eventually. The rest of us  rushed down the hill. Strut hopped up onto the SUV, dropped some business cards, and then climbed onto the bench and crowed in Stallone’s ear. The doors opened, the bodyguards rushed, firing. Bullets ricocheted everywhere. Explosions went off. Cars were set on fire. We were unscathed.

Stallone turned to Strut, held up his hand for the shooting to stop,  and smiled at the rooster, puffing up a bit. “Hey, big guy,” he said, “you are a might-fine looking rooster. What’s your name?”

Strut puffed up too, and circled around. He seemed to love Stallone, to connect with him. They seemed to know each other, these two men. But the rest of us kept coming.

Simon came to the other side and brayed in Stallone’s other ear, and Stallone screamed, Rocky whinnied,  and Stallone’s glasses came off. Simon put his nose in Stallone’s pocket, pulled out a bran muffin and ate it, then pulled Stallone’s cap off and ate it. He scarfed up his protein drink in one gulp. Stallone, rattled, cursed, looked around in confusion, amazement. Strut jumped into his lap and crowed softly.

Red arrived panting from the far right side and rushed up. “About time,” I said. He gave Stallone the eye and the big man was momentarily hypnotized, paralyzed. Sensing the moment,  I rushed up and bitch-slapped Stallone on the back of the head. His wig flew off and Simon scarfed it right up, one breath. Rocky the pony, confused by the noise, ran up the hill and hid behind a tree.

Stallone, clearly unnerved and confused, looking at his torn pocket, the droppings in his lap, looking for his missing wig and hat,  rubbing the back of his head, stood up and roared “who the hell are you?” He was getting angry, but there was respect in his voice. Maybe some fear. Strut, sending the moment of drama, crowed loudly.

Red went off on another outrun, and I stood behind Simon, who was hungrily eyeing Stallone’s scarf, his ears lowered.

“You don’t want to know, pal,” I said. “Stay away from my wife’s dreams.”

Stallone furrowed his brows, squinted at me. “This about the potholders?,” he asked. But I wasn’t listening.

Before Stallone could get a chance to run away, we did. I wanted to spare him the humiliation. Red and Rocky were already back at the farm by the time Simon and I got there. Strut decided to stay with Stallone for awhile before heading back.

Back in my bed, I heard a rooster crowing. Wake up. Wake up. I could hear the former girlfriend snoring softly.