It reminded her of other cows who'd become numbers, grazing peacefully in grassy meadows all over the globalised beef market, and she felt a moment of universal bovine solidarity. She was glad of the teenage piercings in her ear that would allow the insertion of the plastic tag with her number to proceed relatively painlessly, and she was glad she was not a sheep needing a patch of blue or red to be spraypainted onto her fleece.
She searched in vain for Gramsci to share her misery. She worried that his absence might be due to the incorrect HR form having been completed, and his access control having evaporated, and so was very relieved to discover him later lying sleeping next to the eviscerated remains of a fly.
"Never mind," he cooed. "It's all part of a bigger picture. Think of it as enhancing your numeracy skills."
The Cow shook her head. "It's more like a bad scifi movie!" she sighed.
Gramsci chuckled. "In that case," he suggested, "take a lesson from Halle Berry. Insist on doing your own stunts, and use it as an opportunity to enhance your projectile vomiting skills!"
The Cow hoped that 01302922 was well out of range when that happened....