With Queenie Beside Me

Ode to a Badger Dog

I woke early this morning thinking about Queenie.

But to understand Queenie's story, I need to start with Betsy.

We had a wonderful dachshund named Betsy. She got along with everyone—adults, kids, other animals. Just the sweetest temperament. But we started to notice she seemed to be in pain. Rick took her to the vet. Cancer. I hadn’t even known that dogs could get cancer. When it got to the point where her pain couldn’t be managed without essentially dosing her into near unconsciousness, we decided it was time. It was heartbreaking for both of us.

Rick was working with an animal rescue group at the time, and they partnered with the county animal shelter. When we were ready for another dog, Rick let the shelter know we were looking for a dachshund. Eventually, the call came—but it was for two dachshunds, a bonded pair that couldn’t be separated. Rick brought them home.

The larger one, Baby, was as sweet as could be. The smaller one, Princess, was a snarling little bundle of fur with needle-sharp teeth and a vicious streak. But then Baby turned out to be pregnant, so I gave Princess some grace—maybe she was just being protective.

Baby had six puppies. The last one was weak and didn’t live more than an hour. We raised the five surviving pups, joyful little poop machines, until they were old enough to adopt out. And Baby? Baby wasn’t a fitting name anymore. We renamed her Queenie.

About a year later, we were all settled in. The dogs had accepted their new home and were thriving. But Princess still bit me every chance she got. I had to give her space and stay alert. It made me angry that Rick was so casual about it. This was my house. She was the newcomer. And her behavior didn’t even line up with pack norms. It wasn’t just me—she went after anyone who wasn’t Rick. Kids she tolerated as long as they didn’t pester her. But Rick? He had this blind spot for her. Her aggressive devotion seemed to deepen their bond. I spent my days dodging bites and worrying about liability. Rick just basked in her loyalty.

But on to Queenie...

One day, Queenie started sitting beside me on the sofa. Usually, both dogs were glued to Rick—they adored him. (Pro tip: when getting a shelter dog, make sure the person you want them to bond with is the one who picks them up and takes them to the vet. Dogs remember who’s with them during trauma.) But Queenie started sitting with me. Then she began laying on my calves when we went to bed—parallel to them, like a warm, furry blanket. She used to sleep at the bottom of the bed in her own space. Now she was not just near me, but on me.

Then Princess stopped attacking me. She started sleeping beside me. She even nuzzled under my hand for pets. It was... bizarre.

A month went by. Queenie crept farther and farther up my body at night. One night she was on my chest. She was a full-sized dachshund—far too heavy for that. I nudged her down. Princess remained uncharacteristically affectionate.

That’s when I found the lump. I had it checked out. Breast cancer. I started chemotherapy. And those two dogs? They didn’t leave my side through the first three treatments. Queenie especially. She knew. And once I started to get better, she eased off a bit. Still close, but no longer on top of me.

Princess never went back to her old ways. She stayed part of my pack. Rick was still her number one, but if he wasn’t around, she’d sit with me.

Queenie and I had a special bond after that. She sat with me all the time, slept against my legs. We learned that she’d had a hard life before us—used as a breeder, her long dachshund spine pushed to its limits. X-rays showed weak spots. Then one morning she couldn’t move her back legs at all, only drag them. We thought about a wheelchair rig, but there were too many stairs here—outside and inside. She would’ve been miserable. So, once again, we made the painful choice to let her go.

Princess took over Queenie’s spot on the bed—part-time. We’ve got other dogs—Rick worked rescue, after all—and we’ve got the space for them to run and play in a fenced yard. But I still have a hard time sleeping without Queenie.

When I’m restless at night, I imagine her there—her head resting gently on my left calf. I remember her weight, her warmth. I slow my breath.

And I fall asleep with Queenie.