A tiny wildcat took over a scientist's home
One last dispatch from icy Mongolia, now with audio!
By Dan Fletcher
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After 36 hours of flights and 2,600 brain-rattling kilometers across Mongolia's eastern steppe, I have a confession: I got skunked. The manul — that grumpy-faced wild cat that sparked my February adventure — proved as elusive as its reputation suggests.
We found evidence. Plenty of scat (more than I'd care to see). Days old paw prints in the few patches of soft snow. Even a cozy burrow tucked into a rocky outcropping. Our camera traps captured a few tantalizing glimpses. But the cat itself? Nothing but ghost stories and near-misses.
It wasn't for lack of trying. Mongolia is vast — each promising patch of manul habitat might be separated by hours of driving across the windswept steppe. The conditions worked against us too. The snow, hardened by weeks of brutal wind into an icy shell that barely cracked under my boots, made tracking these stealthy predators nearly impossible.
But here's the thing: while I came hoping for photos, I left with something better. I spent ten days learning from Vadim Kirilyuk, a Russian-Ukrainian scientist who's devoted 36 years to studying these ancient cats. He's possibly logged more hours watching manuls than anyone else on Earth. And as your January FUZZ Funds helped expand his research, he shared his ambitious vision for helping the world's oldest living cat species survive the mounting threats they face on the steppe.
So as I board my flight to Tallinn, Estonia (where I’m off to track the Eurasian lynx — I’ll preview that on Wednesday), let me introduce you to this remarkable scientist and his crusade to protect not just the manul, but all the wild creatures that call Mongolia's steppe home.
And that story starts with one very special kitten.
A scientist, a rescued manul, and a mission to save Mongolia's wild cats
Back in May 2018, Vadim Kirilyuk, then working as director of Russia's Daursky Nature Reserve, found himself with an unexpected houseguest. A local farmer had discovered a tiny 15-day-old manul kitten inside an old wagon that had been towed away from the steppe, separating the kitten from its mother. With no wildlife rehabilitation centers within a thousand kilometers, her odds of survival were slim. But Kirilyuk and his family took in the orphaned cat, naming her Dasha.
Despite being one of the world's most elusive wild cats, Dasha adapted remarkably well to domestic life. The family created a den from an old fur hat in a cardboard box, fed her special formula through a bottle, and helped her learn essential skills. But soon no part of the house was off limits. She learned to climb before she could jump, scaling wallpaper to reach beds and couches.
While manuls are known for being shy and solitary, Dasha showed an unexpected capacity for companionship, though she maintained her wild independence — rarely purring or staying in laps for long. She developed complex relationships with the Kirilyuk's domestic cats, even learning classic house cat behaviors like using a litter box by watching them. (The experience left such a strong impression that one cat, Tima, would later react with anger and resentment at the mere sight of a plush manul toy, years after Dasha had gone.)
Dasha’s story became an international sensation, but as a conservationist, Kirilyuk knew the right thing to do was to reintroduce Dasha into the steppe that was her natural home. They started slowly, but as Dasha gained confidence, she went further and further into the wilderness, until eventually, well, she was just a wild cat again.
There’s a hard truth about animals that go viral. It seldom translates into real funding for their actual conservation. (Pygmy hippo scientists hoped they’d get donations after Moo Deng’s recent stardom — it didn’t happen.) And while the public celebrated Dasha’s story, Kirilyuk and scientists like him still struggle to raise funds to understand the threats to the manul.
Join us as a paid subscriber and every penny of your support goes directly to conservation projects like Kirilyuk’s work with the manul. No overhead, no administrative costs - just direct impact for animals in need.
And there are serious threats in Mongolia. In the large area we just drove through, Kirilyuk estimates there are about 5,000 manuls. But in that same area, there are 55,000 dogs — massive canines built to fend off wolves from livestock herds. If they catch a small, slow cat like the manul, it's game over. And as the lost underground cities of the marmots fade away, there's often nowhere for a manul to take cover or escape.
I mentioned the shelters Kirilyuk designed as a solution last week — they’re simple piles of rocks, situated in places far from a manul’s home where it might face a diving eagle or a charging dog. But as the trip ended, we got a chance to revisit one of the camera traps we set by one of the shelters just a week ago. Already there was evidence of a dog stymied by the design.
I'm introducing you to Kirilyuk not just because he's an interesting character — while I was suffering in the backseat, he'd often be out on the steppe singing to himself and gleefully taking plant samples — but because work like this exists on a scale where funding from people like us can make a real difference. The shelters are cheap to build, and Kirilyuk already has ideas for new designs that could be 3D printed from plastic waste out on the steppe.
A few cats saved here and there might not seem significant, but these small interventions help correct an unnatural imbalance in the ecosystem. Over time, they could ensure the manul's survival in a landscape that's increasingly challenging for these ancient cats. Stay tuned for more on that around International Pallas Cat Day in April.
And as for Dasha? Her reintroduction to the wild was a success, but Kirilyuk's as curious as anyone about her legacy. He continues to monitor camera traps from Daursky, finding manuls that bear a suspicious resemblance to his little house guest. He's now working to train AI tools to recognize family relationships among animals, hoping to confirm that Dasha thrived and had a wild family of her own.
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In Nepal, women are leading innovative efforts to reduce conflict between snow leopards and farmers. Rather than relying solely on compensation programs when cats kill livestock, they're building predator-proof corrals with wire mesh roofs and installing solar-powered lights that deter the cats. The woman behind the project, Tshiring Lhamu Lama, has also trained 15 local spotters (half of them women) to support snow leopard tourism, turning these predators from threats into potential assets for the community.
Scientists in Japan discovered footage of something unprecedented — hundreds of sea cucumbers swimming together like a flock of birds in the deep ocean. While these slow-moving creatures are usually seen crawling along the seafloor, this recently analyzed video from 2002 shows them taking coordinated flight, possibly to chase food sources or spawn. The footage sat forgotten for 20 years until a typhoon forced some researchers to kill time chatting about sea cucumbers, leading to this chance discovery in their video archives.
One last moment in Mongolia — when saving one animal means risking another
During our long drive back to Ulaanbaatar, Kirilyuk and our guide, Aagi (whose real name is Razdan), spotted an unusual scene: a distressed goat and a golden eagle, waiting patiently nearby. When we investigated, we found a newborn kid struggling in the harsh February cold – far too early for birthing season on the steppe, where most herds deliver in spring.
While I was groggily waking up in the backseat, Razdan had already sprung into action, gently placing the baby goat in an old M&Ms crate. We set off to find the nearest herder, eventually spotting him in one of the surprisingly common Toyota Priuses that roam these grasslands. The handoff was successful, and we all felt that warm glow of having done something good.
But Kirilyuk, with his decades spent studying the steppe's delicate balances, raised a sobering point: just as humans have altered the landscape for manuls, we've transformed the world of golden eagles. With their traditional prey like marmots underground or missing for the winter, and hares and partridges reduced by human activity, these birds increasingly depend on livestock to survive the brutal winters. While saving the baby goat was an instinctive act of compassion, had we inadvertently condemned an eagle to hunger? Out here on Mongolia's vast steppes, even the simplest acts of kindness reveal the complex web of consequences that bind humans and wildlife together.
Time to leave Mongolia's winter steppe behind, but these complicated relationships between humans, livestock, and wildlife will linger in my mind until I return to see it in summer. And hopefully, finally, get a picture of a manul to call my own.
Great article! I feel like I have visited the steppes with you. A lot to think about. I appreciate the dedication of individuals such as Vadim who contribute to the understanding and conservation of the manuls and the ecosystem they depend on. Thank you!
Great writing! I know how much work goes into this. And yeah, bone-rattling is right.