Buddha statues with flashing haloes studded the intersections everything smelled like incense, garbage, or gasoline. She picked me up in the back of a motorized rickshaw, and we honked our way north through the jammed streets. On a simmering morning in February, Ratnayaka took me on a tour of the district inhabited by her former officeРІР‚в„ўs mischievous koi-hunting cat. The cityРІР‚в„ўs grittier borders, meanwhile, have pressed ever deeper into the surrounding jungle. Flush with new businesses and tropics-hungry tourists, its Western-style north end is now crowded with glittering skyscrapers, immaculate coffee shops, and thumping nightclubs. Colombo has sprinted to recover prosperity since. But Sri LankaРІР‚в„ўs modern economy was crippled by a brutal civil war that lasted from the early 1980s to the late 2000s. Stretched along the shores of the Indian Ocean, the city has been an international-trading center since the days of the Silk Road. But untangling its influence requires wildlife researchers to confront one of the most daunting questions in cognitive science: What is the definition of intelligence?Р”В¬ olombo is in the midst of an expansion thatРІР‚в„ўs startling even by South-Asian standards. What city life does to fishing catsРІР‚в„ў brains is one of many factors that will determine the fate of RatnayakaРІР‚в„ўs unwitting urban pioneers. If so, cities may be making animals smarter than their rural counterparts. Some scientists speculate that only the most intelligent members of a species can survive in a hazardous and ever-changing urban world. As Ratnayaka considers how they may be adapting to this unlikely setting-and whether or not theyРІР‚в„ўre doing so fast enough to make the city, which has been bulldozing its way into their natural habitat, a sustainable home-she has stumbled into a provocative theory.

Since then, Ratnayaka has launched the first-ever study of urban fishing cats, identifying and tracking a small, scattered population of the animals in Colombo as they caper over roofs and wiggle through storm drains. Now, on her phone, Ratnayaka held the first evidence that something could be calling-or forcing-the reclusive animals into the heart of one of AsiaРІР‚в„ўs most rapidly developing urban landscapes. But no one had ever documented a fishing cat in the remote metropolis-or, for that matter, in any city on the planet-until the spring of 2015, when the koi thief was recorded outside her office.

While studying the cats that roam the wetlands around Colombo, she had occasionally heard rumors of sightings within the city itself. Ratnayaka is one of the worldРІР‚в„ўs few fishing-cat experts. True to their name, they dive like Olympians from riverbanks to snag unsuspecting fish. With partially webbed feet and short, rudder-like tails, they coast along the waterways of their riparian homes, making grumbly chirps that sound like duck quacks. They live in swamps-specifically, the reedy wetlands that dot Asian nations from India to Malaysia. Unlike almost every other species in the feline family, fishing cats love water. Ratnayaka immediately recognized the animal: a fishing cat. In the photo, it crouched at the waterРІР‚в„ўs edge, patiently waiting to pounce on a $65 midnight snack. Under the cover of night, it had slunk along the ledges of the office complex, slipped under an awning, and descended on the pond. The creature had black spots, compact ears, and burly shoulders. It looked like a miniature leopard-or a domestic cat that had gotten serious about boxing. Not a lithe housecat on the prowl, nor a bony feral cat scavenging for scraps. But when she unlocked her phone and saw a grainy security-camera image of the thief, she realized her life was about to change. SheРІР‚в„ўd paid little attention to the mystery of the dwindling koi. Ratnayaka, an obsessive young conservationist, worked a desk job at the nonprofit at the time. The landlord couldnРІР‚в„ўt imagine what kind of person would steal a fish, but he was eager to find out.Р”Р„ couple of days after the cameras went up, Anya Ratnayaka woke to a string of text messages bursting with exclamation points. The pond rested at the end of a narrow driveway surrounded by tall concrete walls, so whoever was swiping the carp had either a key or the superhuman ability to bound up nearby roofs and drop in undetected. Panicked, the landlord installed four security cameras to catch the thief.

In a fit of extravagance, the buildingРІР‚в„ўs landlord had bought 10. Lustrous and ethereal, each of these whiskered Japanese carp cost around 10,000 Sri Lankan rupees, or $65. But goldfish were cheap, so no one in the building-an environmental nonprofit in the bustling, sweaty center of Colombo, Sri Lanka-bothered investigating. Every so often, a few would go missing overnight from the officeРІР‚в„ўs tiny outdoor pond.

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