They had gathered in a sequestered section of grass, the flock of Canadian Geese, in East Boston’s Suffolk Downs Race Track. The very early morning hours were spent, as usual, picking up lost coins or currency the track patrons had lost in excitement, deep sadness, or plain misery at losing another bet. Once in a while one of the more astute geese picked up a lost ticket on a winning horse. They’d make a deal with one of the stable dogs, Mackerel, who’d manage to slip it on to his master – some of the winnings would be shared with the geese, one way or another. Mackerel had the know-how.

North Smitty, this year’s elected flock leader, not too excited about horse races in particular, thought about the coin and currency they had piled up in a secret holding place. “We ought to wager it somehow,” he said, “and at least get some fun out of it.”

“Yuh,” said Flo Newfie, “ we sure know how much fun it ain’t for some of the bettors who lose whole chunks of money.” There was a distinct pause and measurement in her voice, as she continued, “Sometimes they lose the whole damned mortgage payment, or enough to pay the rent for a month, or buy groceries. How much fun can that be?” She kept shaking her head and her tail feathers.

Bent River, another fly-by specialist of the flock, said, “Let’s get ingenious on this matter. Smitty’s right in saying we ought to get some fun out of it.” He flapped his wings a few times for timing attention. “Like we say, thinking of heading south for the winter, ‘We can’t take it with us.’”

The whole flock was in stitches over that comment. Flo Newfie even swung her head around and looked at Bent River with a new look in her eyes.

North Smitty had a gander’s look about him as he suddenly said, “I got a great idea. Let’s bet the bundle on the loser of the last race of the day. Make amends somehow. We study the program and pick who we think will come in last in the last race of the day. Let’s see how smart we are. We knock them enough about being stupid,” and he nodded at the crowd starting to gather for the day.

“That’s a great idea, Smitty,” Flo Newfie said, with a new look at the elected leader for the year. “I’ll go snag a program of the day from somewhere in the stables. Be right back.” She flew off in a low but direct flight and they saw her land behind the last stable. In a matter of minutes she returned with the race program for the day.

They argued for over an hour as they studied the program listing for the last race.

“Look here,” Teddy Wingman said, “this old crone’s never won a race in any of her five tries, Nashua Belle. She sounds like a sure winner for us. Can’t even finish some times. What about her?”

“Sounds good to me,” Flo Newfie said, as she smiled at North Smitty again. “What do you say, Big Guy?”

“Well,” said North Smitty, “if that’s the consensus.”

That’s as far as he got in his stand, when the old timer of the flock, Calgary Eddie said, “Look, I’ve been here longer than all of you on these visits. There’s something I’d like to say about some of the things I’ve seen over the years.”

“Go ahead, CE,” North Smitty said, “you got the grass.”

“I often wondered why some horses get to stand for hours with ice packed around their legs before the race. Then one day it came on me, like the lamp was lit. That horse had leg pains and couldn’t finish without his legs being iced down before the race. I saw it a number of times when regular losers, made to stand in ice before the start of his race, won going away. It was like the pain was all gone.”

“How do we track that in this race, CE?” North Smitty said.

“One of them’s in this last race. Goes by the name of Pioneer Joe. The time he was in ice, he ran away with it. Lost all his other races. In fact, came in dead last in four races, but won the last time out. That’s going to change the betting, I’m sure.”

“Be right back,” Flo Newfie said, and she flew off towards the stables.

In minutes she was back. “Pioneer Joe is not standing in ice now. He looks like a sure loser.”

The flock pooled their findings, got it to Mackerel, who managed the bet through his master who understood dog talk.
Pioneer Joe came in dead last, almost dead in his tracks, like the next race was going to be a certain thing.

Sometimes a sure thing is a loser.