Oskar is the worst cat I have ever owned, and Aidan (aka "Palinode") and I agree that anyone else would have given him back to the humane society ages ago. We love the little pest, though, and we've kept loving him for nearly ten years now. Or it might be Stockholm Syndrome.
Oskar had a rough start in life — we think he was seriously abused by a woman before he ended up at the humane society, judging by his involuntary, poop-related reaction to the sound of high heels on hard floors — so he suffered extreme anxiety when we first got him. He would perch on top of the bookshelves, howling and panting with drawn lips, or he'd throw himself around in the tub and emit a blood-curdling yodel. He has calmed down a bit since then, but he still gets meds on his bad days so he can relax into a good cuddle and a nap.
Despite our patience, love, good drugs, and time, though, he hasn't given up his signature caterwaul. Nothing fixes it. I know I have already gone over his generally poor behaviour here and here and here and here and here, but he still persists, and we still don't murder him. Instead, we patiently attempt to guide his behaviour in new directions, despite the last ten years being clear proof of its futility, and then we give him neck massages, because the poor dear has such a stressful life.
If you lived with this cat, you would be wailing to the heavens why, why, why have you made this terrible creature and looking into the possibility of feline laryngectomy. Aidan and I, on the other hand, just shout SWEET JEEBUS WILL YOU SHUT UP occasionally and then give him some cream to make him sleepy.
I think the point of all this is that Aidan and I are obviously saints. We should have our images laminated onto patron saint candles.