In a quiet laboratory above the streets of Zagreb, Dr. Andrija Karačić stared at a set of bacterial profiles that refused to match the textbook.
Karačić, a Croatian physician who trained in abdominal surgery and later founded the country’s first dedicated Gut Microbiome Center (Centar za crijevni mikrobiom), had spent years studying how diet reshapes the trillions of microbes living in the human intestine. Like most of the field, he had absorbed the near-universal claim: remove plants and their fiber, and the microbiome collapses. Diversity plummets. Beneficial fiber-fermenting bacteria vanish.
Pathological shifts follow. The carnivore diet—strictly animal foods, zero plants—should have been the perfect experiment to confirm that prediction.
In 2024 his team finally found a subject willing to be tested. The man was 32, healthy, physically active, and had eaten nothing but meat, eggs, butter, cream, and hard cheeses for four full years. No vegetables. No fruit. No grains. No legumes. He reported better skin, better digestion, and no health complaints. His bloodwork and body composition looked unremarkable for a lean, training man.
When the 16S sequencing results arrived from the partner lab in Germany, Karačić and his colleagues expected a barren landscape. What they saw instead was a microbiome dominated by Firmicutes and populated by genera classically labeled as fiber degraders: Faecalibacterium, Blautia, various Lachnospiraceae, Bacteroides, and Roseburia. Alpha and beta diversity matched carefully selected healthy omnivore controls of similar age, sex, and lifestyle. Predicted functional capacity was comparable. The carnivore’s profile was actually least similar to people who ate meat every day as part of a conventional mixed diet.
The paper, titled “The gut microbiome without any plant food? A case study on the gut microbiome of a healthy carnivore,” became the first published long-term look at the topic. The authors were careful: one person is not a population, and elevated Escherichia and Salmonella sequences raised questions. Still, the central observation was hard to ignore. A man who had consumed essentially zero dietary fiber for years had not developed an obviously pathological, collapsed microbiome.
Karačić’s group kept looking. By 2026 they had assembled ten healthy adults who had stayed on a carnivore diet for an average of roughly three years (range extending beyond five). These were compared against 874 confounder-matched omnivore controls. Alpha-diversity was not reduced; the carnivores showed higher Chao1 richness, indicating more low-abundance taxa. There were no significant losses of Akkermansia muciniphila, the Lactobacillus group, or butyrate-related pathways.
Taxonomic shifts appeared—enrichment of certain low-abundance phyla such as Synergistetes and Desulfobacterota, reductions in some Bifidobacterium and specific Faecalibacterium and Roseburia species—but multivariate models showed the diet itself, not age, BMI, sleep, or place of residence, was the dominant driver.
Functional profiling told a more nuanced story.
The carnivore microbiomes were enriched for amino-acid degradation, B-vitamin synthesis, energy metabolism, and protein fermentation. Some modules linked to cytotoxicity, inflammation, and constipation were also elevated. The authors noted potential long-term risks while emphasizing that the findings challenged the assumption that dietary fiber is required to maintain microbial diversity. They suggested certain animal-derived nutrients might exert previously under-appreciated prebiotic-like effects.
The work did not declare the carnivore diet universally safe or optimal. It did not claim the microbiome was identical to that of a fiber-rich eater. What it did was document, in healthy people living the diet for years rather than days, that the predicted pathological collapse had not occurred. The gut ecosystem had adapted
Mike