At 2:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

Those particular toe beans belong to my nearly fourteen-year-old pocket pittie, Godiva.

I was also contemplating my position on the very edge of the bed, while those toe beans rested comfortably (for one of us) between my shoulder blades. The legs attached to said toe beans maintained just enough pressure that I had to provide counter-resistance if I didn’t want to end up face-down on the dog bed conveniently placed beside the bed: the empty dog bed.

Despite being in my early middle-post-forties, I am apparently still flexible enough to reach an arm behind myself and gently (wouldn’t want to wake the owner of the toe beans, after all) relocate them just far enough to reclaim a slightly less precarious perch on the mattress.

Satisfied with the new arrangement, I pulled my sleep mask tight and resumed my night’s slumber.

At 3:43 this morning, I was contemplating the toe beans in my back.

The same toe beans. The same Godiva. The same precariousness.

I reached back, relocated the toe beans, rocked myself onto the bed, adjusted the mask, and tried to go back to sleep. It happened — eventually — but not as quickly as the first time.

At 5:43 this morning — I swear I am not making this up — I was once again contemplating toe beans. This time, I was also contemplating the term “toe beans.” If you’ve read this far wondering whether toe beans are anything like coffee beans, kidney beans, or jelly beans, I can officially confirm you do not have a pet. And that’s okay; I’m sorry it took me this long to define it. Toe beans are the cute little pads on the underside of dogs’ and cats’ feet that look like jelly beans.

As I considered the phrase “toe beans,” I started mentally drafting a blog post about them. I wondered how in the world dog pads could possibly connect to kindness — other than wanting Godiva to kindly stop pushing me out of my own bed, and my own kindness in not making her return to hers.

Then I wondered if AI could find some connection between toe beans and kindness. That thought almost made me laugh out loud. I slapped a hand over my mouth because I didn’t want to — wait for it — wake the dog. I’m rolling my eyes even now. (And yes, I eventually looked it up.)

That thought led me to wonder whether AI even knew what toe beans were. Of course it did. Of course it looked it up, put on a cute persona, and went, “Aw, it’s so cute.”

Grok went full science mode and explained the anatomical composition of dog pads. ChatGPT just stuck with the “aw, isn’t that adorable” moment.

It’s funny—have you ever told a science-type joke to a scientist or someone who’s just too book-smart for their own good? It falls completely flat because they immediately dissect the science in it. One definition of comedy is the ability to hold two seemingly incongruous thoughts in your mind at once. The smarty-pants can’t. They reconcile the mismatch, solve for x, and the joke evaporates.

Grok was the overthinking scientist. ChatGPT was the friend who gets the joke, laughs, and moves on.

I’m not advocating for or against AI; it was just a tool I used while half-awake and curious. The different responses struck me as funny and eerily similar to real people — the ones who enjoy the joke, and the ones who must always be smarter than it.

I suppose that’s a lot like Godiva. Somewhere along the way, someone taught her that my bed is an acceptable place for her to sleep. I have no idea who that could be. I’m sure it wasn’t me.

But she’s thirteen, almost fourteen. She doesn’t have a lot of time left with us. And honestly, my bed with a warm snuggle buddy is more comfortable than the raised, cushioned, orthopedic, blanketed dog bed.

And maybe — just maybe — kindness is letting someone you love take up more of the bed than is reasonable, even if it means waking up at forty-three minutes after every hour to relocate toe beans.

By the time the alarm went off at — yes — 6:43 this morning, Godiva was sound asleep at the foot of the bed.