I dart my head out over the gate and check up and down the street to see that all is clear. It’s time for Zac’s walk. He’s a rescue dog. He hates dogs, cats, birds, motorbikes and men in visibility vests.

We turn right out of the gate and pass Frankie the free range tom cat’s house. He isn’t home. We pass Roy, Alfie and Hamish’s houses with no response from them. They are all dogs Zac has fought.

Zac now stops to empty his swollen bladder on a patch of long grass under a struggling flame tree. While I wait I notice the weathered running shoes are still hanging from the power lines above. Shirl across the street waves as she waters the jostling crowd of pot plants on her landing and Katie, her dog, barks a challenge.

Just a few steps more and we get to Ray’s house. Ray is on his veranda and stands up to his full height of six-foot-five to greet Zac who lunges at him from fright.

Around the block we go passing the smell of cooking pastizzi, a dead mynah bird, a crumpled chip packet, a torn Mars Bar wrapper, a pizza crust, half a sausage roll, some cat poo, dog poo, a scrunched pastry paper and a patch of dried vomit. You don’t notice these things until you walk a dog.

Up Northwood Street in the heavy shade of the fig trees I can make out Sue’s flame-red hair rinse. Her dog Kio is as reactive as Zac. This means we keep a doubly safe distance. We remain alert until we get home. To Zacky’s home, where he is always a lovely, happy cheeky little dog with a great sense of humour. We can’t take him back. He is our friend for life.