French fries originated in Belgium.

French toast comes from Rome.

The French poodle is really a German water retriever. (Sacre bleu!)

But a cat from New Jersey is cent pour cent French.

He may have been born in the land of Springsteen and diners, but François is as Parisian as a beret.

Correction: François is more Parisian than a beret, since the beret comes from Spain.

He’s not French because he has style, though he is a garçon of effortless elegance. François’s crème brûlée face is flecked with beauty marks. It is as though nature was so proud of this masterpiece, it had to add exclamation points: Voila! Mon François est fabuleux!

He’s not French because he shows his emotions, though François’s affections flow as proudly as the Seine. He is l’amour at large, too warm to play it cool. Should your bisous be few (call them “kisses” if you must), he will cry for more.

Fun fact: in “François,” the same meow translates into “kiss me” and “bring forth the boeuf Bourguignon.” (He will accept le grande hoagie if you’re out of that.)

Should you pet him for a shorter duration than toujours, “forever,” François will mew pitiful “sacre bleus” until you cancel the rest of your appointments for the day.

Should you like him even a little, François will love you with the sweetness of twelve thousand macarons. Love has many languages, and François is fluent in them all.

He is certainly not French because the letter “F” is a monument in his life, though both FIV (feline immunodeficiency virus) and FeLV (feline leukemia virus) mark his skyline.

These Eiffel Towers caused François some detours. Few cafes will serve a cat with both of these conditions. But Tabby’s Place is a famille with a big, crowded dinner table, and François’s diagnoses don’t make anyone drop their baguette around here.

We are all a little needy. That’s true from Camden to Carcassonne to Casablanca. François is just brave enough to admit that, then demand, “Adore-moi!” anyway.

So what is the real reason François is as French as the hot air balloon and the Etch-a-Sketch (both invented in France)?

C’est tres simple.

He has what is called “je ne sais quoi.”

This means an enchanting but mysterious quality, hard to define. It translates into “I don’t know what.” But I will let you in on le grand secret. We do know.

It is a sweetness that makes François our Saint François, kindred spirit to St. Francis, who loved all beings.

It is a brightness that makes the City of Lights look like a plastic flashlight. You are not imagining things: François actually glows. He has heard the rumor that le monde depends on l’amour, and he believes.

After all, he is still here, because a whole string of someones joined hands to save his life, like pearls made of people. He only runs out the door to Quinn’s Corner so he can tell everyone.

He has also heard there is a river of bechamel sauce down the hallway, but that is secondary.

He is Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité on four legs. François is so free, he can love his life without limit. François is so committed to equality, he can love everyone as his favorite one and mean it.

François is so fond of fraternity, he can beam total benevolence at Monsieur Rogers even if the response is “quelle moron.” François assumes this means “you are a gift from the angels, and a friend of my soul.” He is a little fuzzy on the translation. After all, he’s from New Jersey.

But he’s not going to look it up, because François agrees with fellow Frenchman Blaise Pascal that “the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of.” L’amour has already accomplished the impossible feat of bringing us all together at Tabby’s Place. Who can imagine what l’amour will do next?

Perhaps it will get François adopted, turning FIV and FeLV into love letters.

Perhaps it will cook up some squeeze-cheese croissants for all of Quinn’s Corner. (François appreciates fusion cuisine.)

Perhaps it will just carry us further into kindness, like paper sailboats on the Seine.

François will be ready. May we all be quite so French.