The instincts seem to be there. She likes to retrieve stuffed toys, though is reluctant to return them. Maggie sniffs at everything. And fireworks don't seem to bother her.

Sadly, because most of the farmland anywhere close to the Wasatch Front has been developed, I'll probably never know.

That was not the case when I was growing up.

Dad always loved hunting pheasants and, when we moved into the family home near what is now St. Mark's Hospital in the early 1950s, it was time to get a dog.

When Dad's longtime barber offered him a pup whose mother was an English pointer and father was questionable, though likely a collie, we had our first hunting dog - Mick.

I have never seen a better pheasant dog. He lived for 17 years and, until the last year of his life, always hunted pheasants.

Mick had an independent streak and pretty much ignored any commands. The dog often moved so far out in front of us that it was impossible to get a good shot. The good news was that Mick could hold a point forever so, if the bird didn't flush, we had a good chance of success.

Opening day of pheasant season was like a holiday for the family because we spent so much time preparing for it.

Starting in August, dad would get home from his teaching job, put on his old clothes and take us to a nearby field to "run the dog." The best fields were in Murray in what is now the Three Fountains condominium development and Mick Riley golf course. Those nights were some of my happiest as a kid.

After Mick, Dad had me search for another dog. On a trip shooting high school basketball photos, I ran into a secretary at North Sevier High School in Salina whose son needed to find a home for a year-old vizsla named Rocky. Dad agreed to take the dog. When the animal walked into the house, he pointed and then lunged at the family parakeet. Mom was angry, Dad thrilled. Rocky turned out to be another good hunting dog.

With that in mind, Dad got another vizsla. This dog, named Sly, never was much of a hunter, except for leaping at my groin whenever I walked into the folks' house.

After I got married, I had a succession of hunting dogs, including an Irish setter that had to be put down because of a hip problem, a vizsla who escaped the yard and a wonderful purebred lab who was a great duck dog but didn't get the attention it deserved because we had four kids under the age of 6.

Each November, as the pheasant hunt approaches, I long for the days when we had good dogs and places to hunt.

I'll have to be content to watch good old Maggie sniff each morning and just wonder about her nose and instincts.

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* TOM WHARTON can be contacted at wharton@sltrib.com. His phone number is 801-257-8909. Send comments about this story to livingeditor@sltrib.com.