Those handful of readers who follow this column will be pretty familiar with the fact that heritage happens to be the de facto favourite topic of discussion and debate. This time, I’ve decided to mix things up a bit, and talk about another kind of ‘living’ heritage that is integral to our streetscape. Walk along, and you’ll see.

My earliest encounter with a stray was as an eight-year-old. A large, plump pup, brown in colour, showed up at our doorstep [we lived on the ground floor of a building at the time] on a rainy day in August. He sat on the doorstep until morning, when my mother had opened the door to collect the daily newspaper, only to spot the adorable visitor, all drenched and curled up. Some warm milk and biscuits were immediately laid out for the fella. It was a school day, and I was torn between gulping down breakfast and snatching quick glances of the new guest who by now had snugly planted himself on that doormat as the downpour continued.