Ned The Chicken King

Ned, Neddy, the Nedster—he was a lab-cross enigma wrapped in wobbling, lovable confusion. His big floppy ears pointed every which way, his grey coat gleamed like satin in the sun, and his face could melt hearts while he tried—often unsuccessfully—to negotiate life’s mysteries. Every flop down the stairs, every accidental slide across the kitchen floor, every confused glance said: “Admire my genius… or at least don’t trip over me.”

Ned loved chicken. Really loved chicken. Stuffed in a Kong, sprinkled across the floor like a culinary crime scene, or carried proudly in his mouth, chicken was his North Star. And then there was his chicken toy—cheerleader, companion, and occasional chew target. With it clutched in his jaws, he could look heroic one moment, crash clumsily the next, and still maintain the air of purpose.

He wasn’t the brightest in his younger days, but his heart was enormous. He adored swimming with his Spanish Waterdog sister, Rosca, and even the most chaotic antics—flopping, sliding, forgetting where he was going—were underscored by a single-minded eagerness to be near the people he loved. When I stayed with his human, Jess, Ned would barge into my bedroom at dawn, somehow nudging the door open despite locks and latches, then plant his immense body across the bed as if to declare: “You may have a mattress, but I have love.”

The stairs were his personal stage. He’d wobble down, back legs splaying in directions that defied logic, yet somehow land with a flourish that seemed intentional. Watching him, you couldn’t help but laugh and gasp at once. He could trip over nothing, slide across carpets, and still pull it off like it was all part of the plan.

Evenings with him were magical. Jess and I would sit on the garden deck with a glass of NZ Sauvignon Blanc, putting the world to rights, while Ned drifted on and off the sofa, inside and outside, interrupting our conversations with restless nudges. Then, for all of five seconds, he’d curl up beside us with a contented sigh. As night fell, he’d hear noises no one else did and let out a soulful, wolfish howl—delicate yet insistent—reminding us he was ever-vigilant and entirely devoted.

Working with him by my side was a masterclass in patience and love. He’d try to climb onto the sofa where I sat with my laptop but squealed indignantly if I offered help. I’d type, he’d shift, nudge, flop, and eventually settle—nose scratches mandatory. His antics were endless, his love boundless.

In memory of Ned, who passed away on April 10, 2025.

What we can learn from Ned

Ned understood that life isn’t about being smart or perfect—it’s about how you make people feel. Every wobble, flop, and silly antic filled Jess, her boys, and me with laughter, joy, and delight.

Over to you

When was the last time you made someone feel lighter, happier, or truly seen—without trying to be clever or in control? Could a little wobble, a dash of silliness, or simple joy guide your day?

“Life is confusing. Also, chicken.” — Ned, Philosopher of Poultry.