If you grew up in Dublin, chances are you were marched through the Dead Zoo at least once in primary school. Half the class buzzing with the idea of seeing lions and tigers. The other half trying not to cry in front of a stuffed badger.
Officially it’s called the National Museum of Natural History. No one calls it that. It’s the Dead Zoo. Always has been. Always will be. Everything in it is dead, glassy-eyed, and slightly too shiny.
And yes, it still smells like varnish, fear, and old floor polish.
The building’s on Merrion Street, tucked behind the government buildings. No café. No shop. No frills. Just two creaky floors of animals who didn’t see it coming.
You walk in and the first thing that hits you is the stillness. And the smell. It hasn’t changed since the ‘80s. Feels like even the dust is heritage-protected.
Then you see them — hundreds of creatures, lined up behind glass like they’re waiting to be judged. Foxes, badgers, hares, birds in frozen flight. A giraffe with a thousand-yard stare. A walrus that looks like it’s seen some things. Every Irish mammal that ever ran, swam or squeaked — all posed like they’re trying to get their passport renewed.
The lion’s still there. Slightly moth-eaten. Looks like it was stuffed by someone who’d only read about lions. Kids still stare at it like it might suddenly roar. It won’t. Its jaw’s wired shut.
There’s a giant squid too. In a tank. Pickled like a sad vegetable. You don’t notice it straight away. Then you do, and you wonder how you missed it. It takes up half the room. The sort of thing you look at for ten seconds and then need a biscuit to recover.
The best thing is how little it’s changed. No digital screens. No interactive buttons. No cartoon mascots or sponsored exhibits. Just the animals. Dead, old, silent. It’s like walking through someone’s attic if they were obsessed with wolves and didn’t believe in lighting.
I brought a group through once — mix of Americans and Brits — and one woman said, “This place is terrifying. Why don’t they modernise it?” I said, “Because then it wouldn’t be the Dead Zoo anymore. It’d be a PowerPoint.”
She didn’t laugh. But I meant it.
It’s not flashy. But it works. You walk through, you see what used to be here, and you leave a bit more aware of how odd the natural world is. Even when it’s not moving.
It’s also free. Which in Dublin these days is rarer than a pub with a working toilet door.
You still get live pigeons in there sometimes. They sneak in through a window or door and then lose the plot. Flapping around above a sea of foxes and bears. No one really reacts. Staff come out with a net. The animals don’t blink. They never do.
Kids still come on school trips. You see them in their uniforms, half excited, half disturbed. Just like we were. Some things don’t need to be upgraded.
The Dead Zoo is grim. And brilliant. And weirdly comforting.
It’s one of the only places in the city that hasn’t tried to reinvent itself.
And in this town, that’s starting to feel like a museum in itself.
