Everything is better in French.
A black cat in a children’s book. A cat sitting up with tiny eyes and a tiny smirk and a tiny nose. A black cat holding a fork and spoon, staring back at us, daring us to judge her.
You could make that cat American. You could write something like “the black cat likes fish” or “this is a black cat” underneath her. You know what you have? You have a cartoon.
Make her French? The smirk is philosophical. The tiny nose? Poetic. The fork and the spoon? An invitation.
“Le chat noir aime manger du poisson.”
See? It’s better. Forty-something English majors will hang it in their living rooms next to dancers and bloomers. They’ll hang it next candles shoved into beer bottles.