Last night, I awoke to the sound of three pairs of paws in my bedroom. I fumbled for the light and saw George and Ally in pursuit of a blur of brown fur. It was a baby bunny, who proceeded to wedge himself between the wall and a leg of my night stand and flatten his small self as much as possible. He could not, however, still his sides, which heaved from his panicked flight. George stood over him, purring happily.

(OK, OK, so I didn't actually hear the bunny's paws, but it sounds better, now doesn't it?)

He had caught the little fellow and brought it, no doubt with great pride, through the window I've been leaving cracked open for him these summer nights. I'm guessing he dumped it in the bedroom so I could see and appreciate the prize he'd brought to me.

The bunny, aside from having a wet neck, was fine. I threw on my robe, and ran outside, across the parking lot and through the wet grass to a bush under which I placed the baby. When I returned, George was walking from room to room in confusion.

George is a hunter, and as a former farm girl who's often witnessed the circle of life, I'm fine with that. Most summer mornings, I open the back door to find a bunny leg, a few tufts of fur and, if I'm really lucky, intestines. Usually, it's a young rabbit. Sometimes, it's a full-sized rabbit. Occasionally, it's a bird, and my neighbor said she once saw him trotting proudly homeward with a snake dangling from his mouth.

None of these are endangered species. In fact, we're over run with rabbits here. The live ones are another story, however. I have heard their piteous and painful death squeals, and it is a truly heart-wrenching sound. If I catch sight of George before the kill, I happily free them.

Hunting and hanging outside is what makes George's summers glorious. Even in winter, he valiantly braves the elements, but not for long. After half an hour or so, he's at the back door. We spy him looking in at us through the glass, mouth opening and closing in a soundless plea to rejoin us. An hour or so later, he asks if he can give it another try. And so it goes until spring warms the world again.

I'm worried about George, and how he'll take our move. I'm more worried about George than Robby.

You see, we're moving into a third-floor apartment in a 700-unit complex. George has been an indoor/outdoor cat his entire life, first roaming the half-acre lot on which we lived in the mountains, and then here. During our three years in this townhouse complex, he has made friends with all the neighbors. I hear them occasionally, through my open window. "Hi Georgie!" Dianne will say. "How's the hunting been?" A couple weeks ago, I saw Jeff open his screen door at the sight of George standing on his patio. "Hey George, you wanna come in?" George declined.

He also suffers from an identity crisis of which he is unaware. George was raised with our dog and isn't sure what he really is. You may recall from a previous posting that he goes with the dog and I on nightly walks, sometimes very long ones, in rain, sun, dark of night, and snow.

For all George knows, he's mailman. Perhaps a dog. It's even possible he's a cat. I prefer to think catdog. But I think it's this confusion that makes him such an adventurous spirit; the dog goes for a walk, I'll go, too. She chases the ball? Here I come! Regardless of the activity, he refuses to be left behind.

Although our covenants here prohibit pets from roaming alone, George is such a happy spirit no one minds his frequent, independent forays. He lifts his tail flagpole straight at the sight of a human, and offers his head for a stroke, purring at high volume all the while. He is, for all intents and purposes, the townhomes' mascot.

But I don't see how his idyllic lifestyle can continue. And this makes me sad and concerned for him.

In such a large complex, I think he'll be just another cat, not the special little fellow he is here. Someone may very well grab him by his jaunty tail and try to keep him as their own. Aside from that, our new apartment does not have an outside entrance, but access through a hallway. Even if he got to know the area and the location of our unit, how could he get back in? I doubt I would hear his "I'm home! Let me in now!" cries.

Yet I can't imagine making George an indoor cat entirely. It's not just that he'll scratch my furniture to bits, or meow incessantly to be freed. He'll be sad, frustrated and confused. He'll tilt his orange head up, meeting my eyes, and give me that trusting, please-let-me-out look he has perfected so well over the years. And I will shake my head 'no' and turn away.

I want to let him sunbathe on the patio, and in fact make that his primary room. Yet I'm worried he'll see the ground below, and jump from the third floor to earth. He just might survive, but that's not a chance I want to take.

I wonder if George will be content simply with going for walks with Ally, Robby and me, or if, frustrated by his regular confinement and a deep instinctual urge to hunt, he'll bolt and wander back toward our building when he's darn good and ready. Maybe, I'll have to restrain his wild spirit with a leash.

You may say I've created my own monster, that he should never have been an outdoor cat in the first place. But if you saw him leap with manic energy high up into a tree, roll over and over in a patch of dust, or daintily sniff the flowers on a blooming bush, you'd understand why I allowed him such a lifestyle. And to revert again to my childhood, our farm cats knew no other way; it seems only natural to me that a cat spend most of its life outdoors.

That's ideal. This change is a reality I didn't foresee.

A friend who well knows my concerns offered to take George. This is a friend who has only taken a shine to two cats in her life: George and her sister's cat, Moe. I know she would care for him very well, but I drew in my breath in a shocked gasp when she offered. The thought of losing my Georgie, even to a dear friend, was horrifying to me. Aside from that, I don't believe he'd stay. I think he'd come back here, where we will no longer be, searching for his dog and his humans.

Robby will make new friends. Ally will be fine; it's me who will have to adjust to actually walking her down three flights of stairs outside every morning and night.

But just what will become of our Georgie?