Colossal began by extracting DNA from ancient dire wolf specimens—a 13,000-year-old tooth and a 72,000-year-old skull. These genetic blueprints were then compared to the genomes of modern gray wolves, identifying 20 key genetic differences responsible for the dire wolf's distinctive traits. Utilizing CRISPR gene-editing technology, these specific genes were edited in gray wolf endothelial progenitor cells. The edited nuclei were then transferred into enucleated ova, which were implanted into surrogate domestic dogs, culminating in the birth of the three pups.

While the achievement is undeniably impressive, it raises a plethora of ethical and ecological questions. Critics argue that these genetically engineered animals, despite their physical resemblance to dire wolves, cannot truly replicate the extinct species. Behavioral traits, social structures, and ecological roles are shaped by more than just genetics; they are the products of complex interactions within specific environments and communities. Without the cultural transmission of behaviours from one generation to the next, can these recreated creatures function as their ancestors did?

Moreover, the reintroduction of such species into modern ecosystems is fraught with uncertainty. Ecosystems have evolved in the absence of these predators, and the sudden addition of a top-tier carnivore could disrupt existing balances, leading to unforeseen consequences for current wildlife populations. The potential for these animals to compete with existing species for resources, or to introduce novel diseases, cannot be overlooked.

Colossal's ambitions extend beyond the dire wolf. The company has set its sights on reviving other extinct species, including the woolly mammoth, the Tasmanian tiger (thylacine), and the dodo. These are names that resonate with a peculiar melancholy, each a symbol of human folly or of nature's inexorable march. Yet, in the laboratories of Colossal Biosciences, these ghosts are being beckoned from their graves. Each of these projects presents its own set of challenges and implications. For instance, the plan to resurrect the woolly mammoth involves editing the genomes of Asian elephants to express mammoth traits, with the goal of reintroducing them to the Arctic tundra to combat climate change through ecosystem engineering. The woolly mammoth isn't just a creature; it's a totem of deep time. Children first meet it in plastic figurines and Ice Age cartoons, a cuddly behemoth marching across frozen tundras with melancholy eyes and a slightly goofy gait. It's the mascot of Pleistocene nostalgia—a creature that once thundered across the Siberian steppe, both prehistoric and familial. Think Ice Age the franchise—where the mammoth is not fearsome but fatherly. The symbolism is deep: a beast of deep past as a solution for a broken future.

The Tasmanian tiger project aims to edit the genome of the fat-tailed dunnart, a marsupial relative, to recreate the thylacine. Sleek, striped, misunderstood—the Tasmanian tiger vanished not in the Ice Age or the 1600s, but just last century. It was photographed. It blinked on film. Its death is not mythic but modern. The last known specimen died in 1936 in a zoo, likely of neglect. That image—slouching, pacing, yawning—is burned into the cultural retina. The thylacine was declared a pest and hunted to extinction by white settlers in Tasmania, despite little evidence it was damaging livestock. It's not just a species gone—it's a symbol of ecological and settler violence. Colossal and its partner groups market the thylacine project as ecological repair. The animal once helped regulate prey populations in Tasmania. Bringing it back is cast not as spectacle but as rebalancing. But scientists point out that landscapes have changed; the prey base is different; the forests are hotter and more fragmented. So what will this new thylacine be? A scientific proxy? A nostalgia puppet?

Similarly, the effort to bring back the dodo involves reconstructing its genome by comparing preserved DNA fragments with those of closely related pigeon species. The goal is to reintroduce the dodo to its native habitat in Mauritius, but the current state of that ecosystem and the factors that led to the dodo's original extinction complicate this endeavour.

The dodo is the Shakespearean fool of the extinction narrative. It has been extinct since the 17th century, but that very fact turned it into a punchline, a proverb. "Dead as a dodo"—a phrase that teaches children extinction before they know what it means. Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland makes the dodo a self-portrait (Carroll stuttered, saying "Do-do-Dodgson"), transforming it from victim into absurdist chorus. The dodo's extinction at the hands of Dutch sailors—and their pigs, and rats—has long been taught as the textbook example of ecological clumsiness. It's the first creature we made vanish with the help of globalisation and ignorance, and it serves as a feathered monument to our own carelessness. As such, to bring it back feels morally inverted—like reviving a ghost to pretend we didn't kill it.

There is something surreal in using CRISPR to bring back an animal whose most famous trait is its helplessness. The dodo was unfit for a world of men and muskets. What kind of world will a lab-grown dodo be born into now? One of surveillance, patents, and synthetic genomes?

Species are more than genes. They are behaviours passed down, relationships formed, places inhabited. They are shaped by predators, prey, parasites, forests, smells. You can't reconstruct all that with CRISPR. What you get is a mimic, an artifact, an animal out of place. And then there's the matter of money. Colossal has raised over $225 million, backed by celebrity investors like Paris Hilton, Thomas Tull, and Peter Jackson. It sounds like satire—who better to bankroll genetic resurrection than the director of The Lord of the Rings? But their presence speaks to the cultural weight of these creatures. They are no longer just species. They are brands, mythologies, legacy projects. Which is where the unease creeps in. What if this isn't conservation, but spectacle? What if these aren't wild animals, but mascots for a techno-utopian fantasy? What if the money spent on extinct species could have saved the endangered ones still clinging to life?

There are scientists who believe in the promise of this work—and others who caution against its hubris. Geneticist Tori Herridge has spoken about the ethical risks of breeding animals who might suffer. Biologist Beth Shapiro, who advised Colossal early on, has stressed that no de-extinct creature will ever be truly "restored". Even George Church, the Harvard biologist who co-founded the company, admits the results won't be perfect.

But perfection was never the point. The point was to push the boundaries of what life can be.

Still, something aches at the edges of this idea. A sense that we're not just bringing animals back from the dead—we're bringing them back into a world that killed them once, and might not do better the second time around.

ecosystem

The Return of the Phantom Beasts

Macro Problem

Speaking Trees

The Come Back Cat