The fox still had a very long, long way to go before he reached his hole. At least three hours, probably longer in his current weakened state. His stomach growled loudly. This just made the fox weaker, you know, one of those psychosomatic things.
“Damn,” he thought, “If not for that protective farmer, I could’ve and would’ve feasted on at least two chickens.”
He tried to chuckle, “Survival of the fittest.” This moment of whimsy was cut short by a sharp pain through his stomach then the rest of his body. This was serious, for his father, and his father before him, died from starvation. True fact: Death from hunger is hereditary in foxes.
As he rolled on his back, howling and writhing wildly, he spied a bunch of grapes above him. They were gorgeous. They glistened in the fading sun, making them sexier and more life sustaining. The fox sat up and looked up at the grapes long and hard. He would have to jump higher than he’d ever jumped in his life.
He looked around, hoping that there was another option, like one of those bicycle vendors with elotes. No dice.
The fox stood up on his hind legs, shaking, trembling, barely able to support himself. He jumped about an inch. He clutched his chest as he landed on his back with an honest thud. This was it, this is how life ends, how meaningless. He blinked his last blink as the grapes smiled and laughed at him. “Damn you dirty grapes,” were the fox’s dying words.
MORAL: That which doesn’t kill you, only makes you stronger, but it’s all a moot point if you die. Game over.