Country dogs, they were already having misgivings in the car park when it became evident other canines had been invited. On reaching dog central, Bella, whose territorial instincts extend as far as Poland and Czechoslovakia, wanted to bark at every unknown mutt that encroached on ''her'' space.

Colonel, normally a little friend to all the world, let out an unexpected growl when a randy husky roughly the size of the Skywhale (but with smaller dugs) sniffed his bum without warning. Initially intimidated, he quickly realised he was in the presence of thousands of two-legged and four-legged friends he had never met and was soon sniffing bottoms, plates and fallen food scraps with the best of them.

Bella, meanwhile, sulked at her mummy's, my partner Myrna's, feet, swearing and muttering and only shaking into life from time to time to pin back the ears of a passing dachshund or Chihuahua. When some (dogless) members of our party rather foolishly invested in egg and bacon rolls she was happy to sit by as Colonel begged tidbits on her behalf.

Introductions and breakfast out of the way, the furry family grew restless. What was all this about? When was it going to start? When was it going to be over? And, most importantly, was there anything more to eat?

Water was not a problem; the RSPCA's efficient team had dotted wading pools around the area. While most dogs realised these were for drinking from, others had not got that telegram. A golden labrador managed to clear the area when, after immersing herself in the plastic pool, she shook vigorously creating a miniature typhoon.

After a quick visit to the lavatory, we were off … sort of. As a slow tsunami of people and dogs crept across the starting line I heard a member of the pack say, rather unnecessarily, ''It's a walk, not a race''.

There was a report a very courageous cat was present. Colonel searched high and low so he could give it an attitude adjustment but without success. We also missed the pig reported as having entered; probably no bad thing as the family had dined on a pork roast the night before.

We also missed Julia Gillard and the first dog, a cavoodle called Reuben.

About a third of the way into the five-kilometre circuit we were accosted by some strangely accoutred persons pushing a pro-vegetarian line. ''Love one, eat the other?" one sign read under pictures of a dog and a cow respectively. Colonel, who has a particular fondness for marrow bones, was fine with that.

Once past the carillon the second bridge emerged as a major choke point. The next challenge was crossing Bowen Place. ''You guys go right across; I'll take care of the angry people in cars,'' a smiling volunteer said. The car drivers weren't smiling.

Then, two-thirds of the way into the trek and without warning, disaster struck. Colonel, who had already done two kilometres earlier in the day to get his bowels moving, succumbed to the call of the wild. He then tried to hide the evidence in a drift of autumn leaves despite having been observed by roughly 1000 passers-by.

Mummy Myrna, not wanting to be branded as an irresponsible dog owner, sprang to the rescue with a blue plastic bag. ''How much have you been feeding him?'' she asked some minutes later.

Unfortunately the high level of organisation had not extended to providing additional bins. It was to be at least a kilometre before she was able to dump her unwanted cargo. ''I should make him carry it,'' she said. My witty riposte, that he had been until a few moments before, was not greeted with the laughter I felt it deserved.

Suddenly, and just as one of our companions' knees gave out, the end was in sight. Short-cutting the finish line, we paused under the big screen to say farewells before heading to the car park and home. ''Are we there yet?'' Bella asked as we swept into Northbourne Avenue.

''One way to spoil a good walk,'' Colonel replied as he stretched out in the back seat of the S-Class.

''Home James,'' said Bella. ''Don't spare the horses.''