The next evening after he came on board, Dag Daughtry talked it over with him.

Michael sat on his haunches, the length of his lower jaw resting on Daughtry's knee, the while his eyes dilated, contracted and glowed, his ears ever pricking and repricking to listen, his stump tail thumping ecstatically on the floor.
"It's this way, son," the steward told him.

"Your father and mother were Irish.

Now don't be denying it, you rascal--" This, as Michael, encouraged by the unmistakable geniality and kindness in the voice, wriggled his whole body and thumped double knocks of delight with his tail.

Not that he understood a word of it, but that he did understand the something behind the speech that informed the string of sounds with all the mysterious likeableness that white gods possessed.
"Never be ashamed of your ancestry.