“Poppa, what’s that?”
“Why, Silas, that’s a moa, M-O-A, moa.”
“Moa. It’s so big.”
Silas's eyes slowly scan skyward, feasting on New Zealand's biggest big.
“Sure is, lad. And tall, too. Our moa mate here is about three metres in height.”
The above-listed conversation has played out in my mind many times. In the reverie, my grandson and I are enjoying an afternoon at the Auckland Zoo. It is a warm summer day. A few puffs of Aotearoa’s namesake adorn the azure. All is well.
As we saunter, skip, hop, and meander our way around the zoo, a smorgasbord of sensory perceptions vies for our attention: Chirps, snarls, grunts— and that’s just the humans—assail our ears.
And the smells—ah, the bestial bouquets, a scent one wouldn’t purchase in a crystal flacon at the perfumery for a beloved—tickle our nostrils, an olfactory reminder from the Animal Kingdom to slow down, smell the roses, orangutans, kangaroos, and kiwis. (Nay, Mr. Thackeray, nor sniff any “wombat waddle in the straw.")
At the Lookout Café, we stuff down a couple of Kāpiti ice creams (a feeding not requiring zookeepers). And then that last bite of the cold ice “creamery” douses the reverie:
It was New Zealand’s tallest bird.
Moas were hunted to extinction upon the arrival of the Māori centuries earlier. But what if we could engage in a genetic change of tense and make “was” “is”?
Hitherto, the only moas I’ve ever seen in New Zealand have been frozen in time in museums. But recently I had a flicker of hope, a Sir Elton John, “candle-in-the-wind” quiver of hope. What if moas could be scientifically thawed, regenerated, and released from the glass cages to wander the sacred land of Aotearoa or adorn an enclosure at the Auckland Zoo?
Now, before the vapours of doubt accumulate, saturate, and “the rain set[s] in,” “lend me your ears,” imagination, and brolly!
I am not proposing creating life (“Get in behind, Trev!”). Let us stay in our lane, keep to our job description, and leave that duty to “Our Father which art in heaven.” We have all read Ms. Shelley’s 1818 classic novel, seen the movie monster and his missus; playing God does not bode well.
I am not a rocket scientist, geneticist, microbiologist, or any other “ist.” (I am an imagineer, licensed in all three states…of human experience—subconscious, conscious, superconscious.) But the folks at Colossal Laboratories and Biosciences are.
I propose that we build on and support their genetic vision. As they state on their website, they are dedicated to “combining the science of genetics with the business of discovery” and endeavoring to “jumpstart nature’s ancestral heartbeat.”
This is a vast cry, or growl, from Victor Frankenstein’s efforts when he stated in Chapter Five, "I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet."
A tip of the Jacaru to Colossal’s efforts, for they have produced fruit…dire fruit—dire wolves! In 2025, the company announced the birth of the first "genetically engineered" dire wolf-like pups: Romulus, Remus, and Khaleesi.
You may remember the species from George R. R. Martin’s epic fantasy series A Song of Ice and Fire (adapted into the TV show Game of Thrones). In the first book, The Game of Thrones, the Stark children find a litter of orphaned dire wolf pups in the snow.
Now look who is holding the baby—dire pup?
And the good news, nay, great news: The New Zealand moa is on Colossal’s “De-extinction Species Index.”
Music to my ears!
Readers: Let’s take a station/reading break for our scheduled Handel Hallelujah Moment:
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
Even New Zealand’s acclaimed filmmaker Sir Peter Jackson has given his support of the scientific breakthroughs by Colossal. And he has the cinematic creative cred. After all, he “jumpstarted” the 1933 classic King Kong in his 2005 remake. He states on Colossal’s website: “As far as the health of the natural world goes, this is the most positive news any of us could hope to receive. It’s great—I’m feeling like an excited kid again."
Agreed!
Now, we have all read The Original Mandate in Genesis:
"And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth" (Genesis 1:26).
Sadly, that dominion has devolved into the disappearance of thousands of species. But there is hope. Let’s turn that flicker into a bonfire and right the dereliction of dharma. Right our historical wrongs. And embrace the Kiwi expression “She’ll be right, mate (Mother Nature)!”
To the lexicographers at Merriam-Webster and Oxford English Dictionary, let’s expand on the meaning of “dominion” to include “de-extinction.” In many ways Terra Mater is like a huge Pottery Barn, and we have all read the Pottery Barn rule on Sunday afternoon meanderings with the missus: “You break it, you pay for it.” I say let’s pay it forward for my grandson, Silas, and all our grandsprogs and their sprogs.
Imagine.
As John Lennon (my favourite Beatle) once sang: "You may say I'm a dreamer / But I'm not the only one…”
…“Poppa, more please. Ice cream.”
Oh, lad, there is no Oliver Twist privation in your future; only plenty.
I turn to the young lady behind the counter at the Lookout Café.
“Two more Kāpiti ice creams…and a moa, please.”
© 2026
