Here's a couple of stories about a dog.
My father loved beagles like the Queen of England loves corgis. His life wasn't complete without at least one beagle in the vicinity. Beagles, if you've never spent time around one, can be very, very loud little beasties. They're also very, very, ahem, "motivated" by food.
There was a cat outside, or maybe a rabbit, or maybe someone walked down the street who had the aroma of lunch on their breath, I don't remember. But, the beagle was very interested. She was tearing around the living room, baying and flinging herself at the front door until my grandmother had ENOUGH and ordered the dog banished to the back yard. The dog did not want to go, and fought, dragged her paws, and whined every inch of the way, but in the end, the humans won.
Or so we thought.
Once outside, the beagle knocked the door covering the crawlspace under the house away, went under, parked herself under the floor heater, threw her head back, and BAYED at the top of her lungs. For hours. Nothing, not even food this time, could coax her out. That dog wanted her revenge. It was suggested that I, as a small child, could crawl under there and drag her out. Um, no. There were spiders under there.
Bonus multimedia of just what kind of racket a beagle can make:
Same beagle, a couple of years later. It was my birthday, we were eating pizza in the living room while my cake was sitting on the kitchen table. Suddenly, we realized we hadn't seen that dog for a while, and that things were suspiciously quiet. Now, the beagle knew that jumping on the table was the doggy equivalent of stepping on the red lava tiles. Instant death. But, she found a loophole. She was sitting on the kitchen chair, with her neck extended as far as it would go, excavating the side out of the cake with her tongue. She never even touched that table.