Check this out:
We used to have a dog named Jack. He was a stray mutt (best we could figure was that he had German Shepherd, Basset hound, beagle, and who knows what else in him. I'd post a picture, but I can't find any on this computer *tear*) that dropped by one day, and hung around for about ten years. He was our best dog ever (I say that with all seriousness--we actually wrote a song about him that grew until his death in March of 2008), except that he liked to eat practically anything. That proved to be his downfall, actually--he got loose one day, when he was 15 or 16, and ate some antifreeze. *sniff* He has been sorely missed ever since...
So one day Mom was making bread, as she was wont to do a couple of times a week (we went through bread FAST when we were younger). Each batch made three 2-pound loaves, so it was about six pounds of dough. I believe it was the late fall, early winter, hence the house was a bit chilly and since dough likes warmth in order to rise she put it in a bowl, placed a dishtowel over said bowl, and set the bowl on the ground next to our woodstove. This happened on a fairly regular basis, so we didn't think anything of it.
About fifteen minutes later, Mom came back to find Jack with his nose in the bowl. She grabbed him and dragged him back, but of course the damage was already done: at least two-thirds of the dough was gone. Other than being irritated that he had eaten ANY dough she didn't think too much of it.
Another half-hour or so passed. Mom was mixing together another batch of dough, when this groaning and moaning comes from the living room. It wasn't showing any signs of stopping, so we traipsed in to see what was the matter.
Jack was lying on his side next to the stove, his belly distended, and giving these disheartened moans every few seconds. It took us a moment to figure out that the bread must have risen inside his stomach since it hadn't risen fully when he ate it, and it couldn't be 'punched down'--I'm assuming that bread will just kind of grow indefinately (within reason, of course) if it doesn't get punched down, which was what seemed to be happening.
After we laughed ourselves silly over the whole predicament, Mom took it upon herself to pull Jack away from the stove and try to 'punch down' the bread by carefully pushing down on Jack's stomach. It may sound kinda crazy, but it must have worked because Jack lived without any ill effects for another 8 or 9 years.
But he never did eat bread dough again.