On a hot and steamy March night, we were sitting on our front deck enjoying dinner with our neighbour, watching eleven geckos patrol the ceiling for moths attracted to the light. Also hunting that night was a big fat shiny green treefrog, sitting perfectly still in a horizontal section of drainpipe, two stories above the ground, waiting, watching.

A full-size gecko stealthily worked its way towards the frog, which appeared unmoved. What would happen next? Would it crawl right over the frog, or go around? Neither. As we watched, the frog took an almighty acrobatic leap, its long legs trailing behind like an Olympic swimmer leaving the blocks. It grabbed that gecko just behind head, then, with all its legs spread out like a parachute,  fell at least six metres to the pavers below. Splat! The impact sounded like a hens’ egg dropped onto concrete.

We rushed to see the carnage – surely frog and gecko must both be deceased. But no; at the foot of the stairs, the frog had landed right way up, gecko still in its mouth, head protruding from one side, legs and tail the other. Apparently none the worse for wear. The gecko looked almost bemused, perhaps wondering what just happened. As we watched, the frog tossed it into the air and grabbed it again, head first. Now all that was visible was the gecko’s tail and one foot with its tiny spade-like toes. After a minute or so, the frog took one final gulp, and the gecko was gone.

We left the frog undisturbed to digest its meal. How it fitted such a large gecko into is stomach beats us. We’re guessing it didn’t have to eat again for weeks.

 Meanwhile, the other ten geckos proceeded as if nothing had happened. Maybe glad of less competition on the ceiling. It’s a jungle out there!