Endangered Parrot's New Fight: Cancer

Elvis, the Gladys Porter Zoo's most famous parrot, hasn't had an easy life.

Endangered, orphaned and now disease-stricken, the bird's biography - though largely unknown - reads like the most poignant of tragedies.

When he was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma on his beak a few weeks ago, it looked as if the end might be near for one of the world's last remaining thick-billed parrots. But Elvis - a refugee from western Mexico and a likely victim of the illicit pet trade - had been fighting for his life long before the diagnosis.

After the Texas Oncology Center agreed to treat him with radiation therapy, Amanda Guthrie, an associate veterinarian at the Gladys Porter Zoo, rejoiced.

"He's an endangered species," Guthrie said. "We know it's worth spending the resources."

For Elvis, it meant the last chapter of his life had not yet been written.

Five days a week, he is sedated and carried to the oncology center's radiation ward, where he lies lifeless on a makeshift Styrofoam stretcher. A beam of radiation strikes the bird's penny-sized tumor for thirty seconds. His amber eyes remain open during the treatment, which the Texas Oncology Center is providing without cost.

"This is from the corazon," said Letty Martinez-Roerig, the center's practice administrator. "We couldn't let one of our community's animals die without stepping up."

The treatment is experimental, and could provide insight into the reaches of veterinary science. But for oncologists and zoo personnel, it has become a more personal crusade.

Something about the bird - squawkish, clawed, hardly the consummate pet - elicits affection from the group that greets Elvis after his therapy has concluded.

However, the sentiment comes with a host of unanswered questions. Veterinarians say Elvis, who was abandoned in front of the Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge in 1998, could be anywhere between 11 and 60 years old.

His melanoma could be the result of a life spent in the sun, or it could reveal something hitherto unknown about avian biology.

Even in name, the bird is a mystery. Radiation therapists now call him Elvis because his real name has been forgotten, if it ever existed.

But the bird's future remains the biggest uncertainty.

"We don't expect that this will be curative," Guthrie said of the therapy. "We'll have to reassess after he's completed his 20 radiation sessions."

Last week, after a string of gowned men left the radiation ward, Elvis underwent his 13th session. He's always the last patient of the day at the Texas Oncology Center, and he is likely the facility's only visitor whose folder reads simply, "Pajaro."

When he emerged from the treatment with his wings moving lethargically, Guthrie held him close, like a small child. In an attempt to save his life, the irascible parrot had been reduced to listlessness.

For a moment, he could have been any bird, softened by age and disease. Nevermind that he had just undergone a costly, if unlikely, procedure. Nevermind that important questions about veterinary science hinged on his recovery.

The parrot fluttered his wings and allowed Guthrie to place him in a small carrier.

Quietly, Elvis left the building.