After a final futile swipe at the grapes, the fox gave up in disgust and turned to look for greener pastures and more accessible fruit. At just that moment, a squirrel scampered up and gave the grapes a speculative once-over.

"Those your grapes?" asked the squirrel.

"Nah," pouted the fox.

"Then you won't mind if I snag 'em, eh?" said the squirrel.

"Oh, you don't want those grapes," replied the fox with reviving interest. "They're sour."

"Hmm. Are they?" mused the squirrel. "Well, I think I'll just find out for myself. Nothing ventured ..."

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no!" insisted the fox. "Those grapes aren't just sour. They're poison."

"And how do you know?" asked the squirrel.

"We foxes just know these things," said the fox. "Trust me."

"Oh, I see," nodded the squirrel. "Nevertheless, I'm going to shimmy on up, grab 'em, and check 'em out."

"No!" growled the fox menacingly. "You don't want those grapes."

"Um, I'm pretty sure I do," countered the squirrel.

"They're not good for you," said the fox, pointedly inserting himself between the squirrel and the grapes, "and you don't want them."

"Er, ... why don't I want them?" asked the squirrel.

"Because," roared the fox, "they're sour and poison and bad for you and I told you so and I can't have them, so neither can you! And I'm going to stand here until you starve to death or I get my way, whichever comes first!"

"Ok," shrugged the squirrel, "but are you sure you know who's going to starve to death?"