The Simple Art of Flying Fritz Feldman’s Official Medical Logbook Medical Log, May 6
Today in English, Mrs. Cuthbert said that if I wanted to become a doctor someday, I should start writing like one, and oh Mylanta, I thought that was a GREAT idea, so here starts my “Official Medical Log.”

• Age: 11 years 10 months

• Weight: 122.3 lbs

• Height: 53 in (if I measured right)

• Current status: 1 ingrown toenail, 2 spider bites, 1 possible heart palpitation, questionable lump

I think that about covers the medical stuff.

I guess I should tell you a little bit about me. There are probably only two really important things you should know.

1. I want to be a medical practitioner when I grow up. (That’s a doctor, in regular terms.)

My dad’s an accountant at a big hospital with all kinds of doctors—brain surgeons, heart doctors. . . . I’m actually not sure what kind of doctor I’ll be, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be one of those. I don’t want to specialize in the emergency stuff either. Or geriatrics (that’s medicine for old people). Nothing where you, you know, have to try to save somebody’s life?

2. I’m the only almost-twelve-year-old I know who has a job.

I work at Pete’s Pet (and Parrot!) Shack every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday after school. It’s not exactly legal, but Mom said it was okay since she works late and Grandpa isn’t there to let me in after I get home from school anymore. She worries I’ll get locked out again, like that time the neighbor’s dog was sniffing around the rhododendron bush and ate our hidden key. (PS Did you know you can get frostbite in just thirty minutes? It’s true. I didn’t get frostbite because it wasn’t exactly cold, but anything’s possible.) At least at the shop Mom knows where I am. And if anyone asks, I tell them Pete’s technically my childcare technician.

(Pete says not to mention the five bucks he gives me every day.)

It’s a good job. I mostly sweep and stock shelves, but sometimes it’s exciting. Like when I get to take a sick guinea pig to the back and put him in the Infirmary to get better.

Or when a shipment of twenty-four tarantulas comes in, and I have to show Pete that his handwriting on the order really DOES look like a 24 and not a 2. That’s why I get to fill out all the orders now.

Or like today, when I got to watch a baby African grey parrot hatch. I was the very first person in the whole world to welcome him to earth. That’s a big responsibility, I think. I didn’t really know what to say, so I just introduced myself, and I kind of gave him a name. And just to keep him company, I told him about his genus and species and the differences between primates and birds (thumbs, for example)—stuff like that.

But later, when I was cleaning out litter boxes in the back, I noticed one of the other eggs didn’t look right. A tiny bird was halfway out of his shell, and he wasn’t alive. I didn’t touch him at all, but I could see that he hadn’t absorbed his yolk sac, and when that’s the case, there’s just nothing you can do. I looked it up.

Pete wasn’t happy. He told me to take the baby bird out and feed it to the snakes. Don’t worry—I didn’t do it. But I did notice the egg incubator was at 97.3 degrees. A whole degree too low! That’s a big deal when you’re hatching chicks. I fixed it and added water to increase the humidity, so hopefully the last egg will hatch all right.

I’ll check on Alastair and the other egg when I go back in on Wednesday and let you know what happens.

Signed: Dr. Francis Fitzpatrick Feldman, MD (I think this will be my future signature.)

PS I just realized I forgot to bring the dead bird home. I was going to bury him.

PPS I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but during lunch today, I found a dollar in the school library’s Latin dictionary. I didn’t want to be sneaky, so I gave it to Mr. Hall, the librarian, and as I was leaving, this little old lady who was helping him put books on the shelf waved her feather scarf at me and shouted, “Ah! Rara avis! Farewell!” It was kind of weird.

(Note to self: Remember to look up what “rara avis” means.)