It starts with one.
A casual shake. A gentle drizzle.
But in the world of Vallhunds, no good shake goes unnoticed.
Suddenly, the second one joins in.
Then the third.
And before you know it, it’s a synchronized Shakeapocalypse.
They don’t do it to dry off.
They do it to hit each other.
And once they’ve soaked each other enough,
they turn…
and finish the job on me.
Every. Single. Time.
This isn’t chaos.
This is coordination.
This is a wet conspiracy.
Final verdict?
Jerks. Adorable, fluffy jerks.