Once upon a time there was a fox. Foxes are awesome because they have all the playful bounce of dogs with an insouciant "don't need you" splash of cat-attitude (catitude? whatever). The fox is all, as long as I'm not living in England where the people have terrible teeth and hunt me, life is fine. Bouncy fox.
Foxes are omnivores so this fox ate a bunch of different things. Fruit, bread, bird food; even some chickens. Yeah I know about the unfortunate incident with the henhouse but we're actually going to be dealing with a different idiom here.
So in the course of the merry bouncy life of this fox, lots of food. Some fantastic things. There was a bush of berries so sweet that it took some time to move away from it, and even though the berries were sweet only most of the time, and were in season only some of the time, still the fox stayed and ate them, mouth stained red with pleasure. Another period spent living near a farmhouse, eating mice, the excitement of chasing them, catching them, the fast gulp of consummation. A long time spent almost tame, living off what scraps were thrown its way, until the scraps turned from bits of tender fresh meat that could be ripped from the bone to dinner scraps to moldy bits begged from the back of the fridge and the fox knew it was time to move on.
And now the fox is out again, roaming. It's made a few poor food choices in life, shivering and heaving in the forest that runs alongside the houses, eating leaves to calm its stomach and thinking that anything that looks too good is bound to hurt. Thinking it would be better to never eat again than to feel this pain. Better to shrivel up.
One day the fox passes a vineyard, and remembers the taste of grapes. Some sweet, a bit of mold on them, the heady tail-chasing dance of that night. Some with seeds that crunched in the teeth and the juice ran down, sugar matted fur, the feeling of being completely sated. But the last grapes were a bad batch, sweet on the tongue but with a retching sour aftertaste, and now the fox isn't sure. Standing hesitant before the tidy rows of vines, and the fox doesn't know with certainty if the gnawing feeling is hunger or just curiosity, what it wants or if it even wants anything at all.