Ode to Cally
by Joanne Ingrassia
(This article first appeared on www.room217.ca, and then again on The Power of Pets website - www.authormarybethhaines.com)
Music has been a constant companion in my life. It has underscored joyful times and sorrow, celebrations and goodbyes. As a classically trained pianist and songwriter with an appreciation for many genres of music, it has been part of the daily landscape of my home. But music has never meant as much as during the recent passing of my beloved 20-year-old cat, Cally.
From the time I rescued her more than 18 years ago, Cally seemed to appreciate music, too. Upbeat jazz sparked playfulness, she mellowed out to blues and folk, while classical soothed her to sleep.
The night I rescued her, I remember playing light jazz in the car and then at home, hoping it would create a calm environment for her. She seemed to enjoy it, showing no signs of distress, curling up on my bed and falling asleep as if we had always been together. I named her Cally in honour of musician Cab Calloway who had just died.
A few months later, I rescued a young kitten as company for Cally, and the two of them bonded deeply. Lissa, named for rock musician Melissa Etheridge, was a typically playful kitten, full of spunk. Cally initially mothered her but they grew to be ‘sisters’, grooming each other, playing and curling up together to sleep.
But as Cally passed her 20th birthday this past November, I could see how much she had slowed down. She had been fighting a couple of diseases for the past few years and though she was on medication, there came a time when my vet and I decided there was little else that could or should be done, and that she live out her life, comfortably and well loved at home.
At Christmas, I realized Cally was getting ready to leave. Though she still did the usual things that are markers for animals living well day to day, there were changes. I noticed how much more she wanted to stay in very close contact with me and Lissa throughout the days and nights.
I could no longer listen to the Christmas music I loved and instinctively reached for Classic Comfort, one of Bev Foster’s Room 217 CDs that I have always enjoyed. I began playing it and continued to do so for days. It created a sense of calm and peace in my home, with the gentle, slow-paced rhythm of the solo piano music. I echoed this peace with candles and soft lamp light.
I knew it was important to stay calm and the music really helped me breathe slower. I spoke softly to Cally, telling her how much I loved her, how she had brought such love and joy to my life, how well she had cared for Lissa and me over all these years, always there to offer a loving gaze or soft cuddle. I whispered that it was okay to go. I have done the same with people I love who are close to death. I’ve always been so grateful to have had the time to say goodbye.
The days between Christmas and New Year’s Day were understandably melancholy, and yet beautiful. It was a gift to have those last few days together. It seemed many times that Cally was close to death, but as I lay beside her, gently giving her healing touch, she would seem to gain strength, eat and drink a little and then lie back down in front of the fireplace, her favorite spot. I began to wonder if animals, like people, won’t leave until they know that those that love them are ready to let them go. Maybe it is the deep bond of love that is at the root of it.
Cally would sometimes gently put her paw on my face to get my attention, often early in the morning when it was time for breakfast. On New Year’s Eve, as we all lay on the big floor cushion in front of the fireplace, she reached out again, touched my face and held my gaze for several minutes. It felt like goodbye.
Classic Comfort continued to play softly as we slept off and on through that night. I told Cally I wouldn’t leave her.
By morning, I knew the time had come. Her life was fading faster. I looked deeply in her eyes and began to sing a song I had recently written:
Breathe deep
Take it slow
Please don’t worry anymore
Time has come
To let go
You loved us well, we know
Sleep sweet
Sleep deep
Sleep forevermore
We’ll miss you all the time
But we will be fine
I called my vet. We had been talking over the past few days so he knew what was unfolding. But I had grown concerned that Cally not struggle or be in pain at the end and it seemed those signs were starting to show. Even though it was New Year’s Day, he came over that afternoon to our peaceful home, as the music played on.
When he arrived, I knew Cally was probably within breaths of dying. She was still lying in front of the fireplace and that is where my vet kneeled down to care for her. So very gently, and so very quickly, as I stroked her head and looked in her eyes, saying ‘I love you, please let go’, my vet inserted a small needle, and she was gone.
My spiritual beliefs, mixed with what I have witnessed with people dying over the years, have led me to believe that spirit and love never die, and that right at the time of death, these are intensely felt in the room. So I left Cally exactly where she lay, cuddled in her favourite blanket, with Lissa and I remaining by her side for quite awhile. I could not stop playing Classic Comfort; it had become a continuum of peace and support to us all.
I made a call to Thistledown Pet Memorial in Uxbridge, a special place that provides cremation and private services for pets. I knew that this was how I wanted to honour Cally’s passing. I had been talking with the owners, Colin and Nancy Graham, over the previous few days, gathering information about what was possible to do and telling them about Cally. They had been very kind and understanding and assured me I could plan this final goodbye in whatever way I wanted. I knew that I must have Classic Comfort with me.
The next morning I gently gathered Cally’s body in her blanket and drove up to Uxbridge from Toronto, music softly playing in my car. As I brought Cally into Thistledown, a country home designed specifically for pet memorial, I was comforted to find they had a fireplace, too.
After we did a few preliminary things, I placed Cally in her blanket in front of the fireplace and sat beside her while Classic Comfort played quietly. When it was time, Colin led the way as I carried Cally in her blanket over to the small crematorium building, playing Classic Comfort on my digital recorder, Nancy walking beside us with a candle.
As we entered the room, I switched my recorder over to the song I had sung to Cally, Breathe Deep, and played it for her one last time (I couldn’t sing with the emotion I was feeling). I tucked a wee note of love under her paw, and said goodbye.
Back in front of Thistledown’s fireplace, now wrapped in Cally’s blanket, I could feel my tears flowing as the music comforted me. It felt like a hug, a reassurance that all was as it had to be, and I would be okay. I closed my eyes and meditated for awhile, feeling my heart, though very sad, so full of love for Cally.
Colin returned Cally’s ashes to me in a white silk pouch which I placed into a beautiful handmade pottery urn. It had earth-coloured beads hanging off the lid handle, and a silver angel wing. I had often called her Cally Angel; it was perfect.
I walked out to my car with Cally’s urn on her blanket, playing Classic Comfort all the way home. The music was a continuum to me, important not to break. When I came in, Lissa was in front of the fireplace, quiet music still playing on the stereo that I left on for her. She seemed peaceful. I showed her the urn for a few minutes and then placed it on top of our fireplace where Cally’s ashes remain.
The next few days felt a bit surreal, as I have found when losing anyone I have loved. Eventually I was able to start playing other music. But Classic Comfort will always be imprinted as my honouring time with Cally. And I know, as I continue to heal, music will help centre and ground me, and bring me and those around me, peace.
Joanne Ingrassia is a writer, photographer and songwriter and a dedicated music, nature and animal lover. She volunteers with the Toronto Wildlife Centre and helps people, too, especially those grieving or those nearing end of life.
by Joanne Ingrassia
(This article first appeared on www.room217.ca, and then again on The Power of Pets website - www.authormarybethhaines.com)
Music has been a constant companion in my life. It has underscored joyful times and sorrow, celebrations and goodbyes. As a classically trained pianist and songwriter with an appreciation for many genres of music, it has been part of the daily landscape of my home. But music has never meant as much as during the recent passing of my beloved 20-year-old cat, Cally.
From the time I rescued her more than 18 years ago, Cally seemed to appreciate music, too. Upbeat jazz sparked playfulness, she mellowed out to blues and folk, while classical soothed her to sleep.
The night I rescued her, I remember playing light jazz in the car and then at home, hoping it would create a calm environment for her. She seemed to enjoy it, showing no signs of distress, curling up on my bed and falling asleep as if we had always been together. I named her Cally in honour of musician Cab Calloway who had just died.
A few months later, I rescued a young kitten as company for Cally, and the two of them bonded deeply. Lissa, named for rock musician Melissa Etheridge, was a typically playful kitten, full of spunk. Cally initially mothered her but they grew to be ‘sisters’, grooming each other, playing and curling up together to sleep.
But as Cally passed her 20th birthday this past November, I could see how much she had slowed down. She had been fighting a couple of diseases for the past few years and though she was on medication, there came a time when my vet and I decided there was little else that could or should be done, and that she live out her life, comfortably and well loved at home.
At Christmas, I realized Cally was getting ready to leave. Though she still did the usual things that are markers for animals living well day to day, there were changes. I noticed how much more she wanted to stay in very close contact with me and Lissa throughout the days and nights.
I could no longer listen to the Christmas music I loved and instinctively reached for Classic Comfort, one of Bev Foster’s Room 217 CDs that I have always enjoyed. I began playing it and continued to do so for days. It created a sense of calm and peace in my home, with the gentle, slow-paced rhythm of the solo piano music. I echoed this peace with candles and soft lamp light.
I knew it was important to stay calm and the music really helped me breathe slower. I spoke softly to Cally, telling her how much I loved her, how she had brought such love and joy to my life, how well she had cared for Lissa and me over all these years, always there to offer a loving gaze or soft cuddle. I whispered that it was okay to go. I have done the same with people I love who are close to death. I’ve always been so grateful to have had the time to say goodbye.
The days between Christmas and New Year’s Day were understandably melancholy, and yet beautiful. It was a gift to have those last few days together. It seemed many times that Cally was close to death, but as I lay beside her, gently giving her healing touch, she would seem to gain strength, eat and drink a little and then lie back down in front of the fireplace, her favorite spot. I began to wonder if animals, like people, won’t leave until they know that those that love them are ready to let them go. Maybe it is the deep bond of love that is at the root of it.
Cally would sometimes gently put her paw on my face to get my attention, often early in the morning when it was time for breakfast. On New Year’s Eve, as we all lay on the big floor cushion in front of the fireplace, she reached out again, touched my face and held my gaze for several minutes. It felt like goodbye.
Classic Comfort continued to play softly as we slept off and on through that night. I told Cally I wouldn’t leave her.
By morning, I knew the time had come. Her life was fading faster. I looked deeply in her eyes and began to sing a song I had recently written:
Breathe deep
Take it slow
Please don’t worry anymore
Time has come
To let go
You loved us well, we know
Sleep sweet
Sleep deep
Sleep forevermore
We’ll miss you all the time
But we will be fine
I called my vet. We had been talking over the past few days so he knew what was unfolding. But I had grown concerned that Cally not struggle or be in pain at the end and it seemed those signs were starting to show. Even though it was New Year’s Day, he came over that afternoon to our peaceful home, as the music played on.
When he arrived, I knew Cally was probably within breaths of dying. She was still lying in front of the fireplace and that is where my vet kneeled down to care for her. So very gently, and so very quickly, as I stroked her head and looked in her eyes, saying ‘I love you, please let go’, my vet inserted a small needle, and she was gone.
My spiritual beliefs, mixed with what I have witnessed with people dying over the years, have led me to believe that spirit and love never die, and that right at the time of death, these are intensely felt in the room. So I left Cally exactly where she lay, cuddled in her favourite blanket, with Lissa and I remaining by her side for quite awhile. I could not stop playing Classic Comfort; it had become a continuum of peace and support to us all.
I made a call to Thistledown Pet Memorial in Uxbridge, a special place that provides cremation and private services for pets. I knew that this was how I wanted to honour Cally’s passing. I had been talking with the owners, Colin and Nancy Graham, over the previous few days, gathering information about what was possible to do and telling them about Cally. They had been very kind and understanding and assured me I could plan this final goodbye in whatever way I wanted. I knew that I must have Classic Comfort with me.
The next morning I gently gathered Cally’s body in her blanket and drove up to Uxbridge from Toronto, music softly playing in my car. As I brought Cally into Thistledown, a country home designed specifically for pet memorial, I was comforted to find they had a fireplace, too.
After we did a few preliminary things, I placed Cally in her blanket in front of the fireplace and sat beside her while Classic Comfort played quietly. When it was time, Colin led the way as I carried Cally in her blanket over to the small crematorium building, playing Classic Comfort on my digital recorder, Nancy walking beside us with a candle.
As we entered the room, I switched my recorder over to the song I had sung to Cally, Breathe Deep, and played it for her one last time (I couldn’t sing with the emotion I was feeling). I tucked a wee note of love under her paw, and said goodbye.
Back in front of Thistledown’s fireplace, now wrapped in Cally’s blanket, I could feel my tears flowing as the music comforted me. It felt like a hug, a reassurance that all was as it had to be, and I would be okay. I closed my eyes and meditated for awhile, feeling my heart, though very sad, so full of love for Cally.
Colin returned Cally’s ashes to me in a white silk pouch which I placed into a beautiful handmade pottery urn. It had earth-coloured beads hanging off the lid handle, and a silver angel wing. I had often called her Cally Angel; it was perfect.
I walked out to my car with Cally’s urn on her blanket, playing Classic Comfort all the way home. The music was a continuum to me, important not to break. When I came in, Lissa was in front of the fireplace, quiet music still playing on the stereo that I left on for her. She seemed peaceful. I showed her the urn for a few minutes and then placed it on top of our fireplace where Cally’s ashes remain.
The next few days felt a bit surreal, as I have found when losing anyone I have loved. Eventually I was able to start playing other music. But Classic Comfort will always be imprinted as my honouring time with Cally. And I know, as I continue to heal, music will help centre and ground me, and bring me and those around me, peace.
Joanne Ingrassia is a writer, photographer and songwriter and a dedicated music, nature and animal lover. She volunteers with the Toronto Wildlife Centre and helps people, too, especially those grieving or those nearing end of life.