Sprouting Sprouts: A Farm Experiment

I recently read an article on feeding sprouted grains to livestock. The theory is that whole grains contain an enzyme inhibitor and it takes a lot of the animal's energy to digest them. However, sprouted grains no longer have the inhibitors but now contain the proper digestive enzymes so the animal can utilize the nutrition. Sprouting also increases the nutritional content of each grain. 

I used to raise sprouts years ago when I had rabbits. The goats and chickens ate what the rabbits didn't finish but I really didn't pay attention to any benefits realized from the sprouts, mostly because I wasn't looking for any.

This time I wanted to see just what difference sprouts would make in milk production. All but one of my does are nursing kids so it's impossible to tell if their milk production has increased, but the one gal who isn't nursing has almost doubled in production. I didn't test the milk before the addition of the sprouts but it now has a yellowish color and my customers have commented that the milk is a lot creamier. An added benefit is that the picky eaters in the group are no longer picky eaters. They all devour the sprouts, which I have replaced about 1/2 their grain ration with, and the picky ones have increased appetite for even their dairy goat sweet feed.

Here's my experience with different types of sprouted gains so far:

Corn seemed like the easiest to try but I found it takes a long time to sprout and the goats didn't really like it. So I fed it to the chickens and they took a long time to eat it as well.

Oats sprout easily. I soak them covered in water for several hours, rinse out the dirt and put them in a tray, rinsing them several times a day. They are ready in about 3 days. I don't wait for green shoots because by that time the roots would be a jumbled mass. The protein content of oats goes from about 13% for the raw berries to between 15 to 28% sprouted. I'm not sure why the big range in %. Perhaps someone reading this will know and share their knowledge with me. (Edit: I found an article that states sprouts are at about 18% protein when the white shoots are about 1/8" long. The highest protein would be from oat grass but you would only harvest the green fodder, not the roots. That's way too much trouble for my setup.)

Rye seeds sprout very quickly, ready in a day or 2. The goats absolutely love them when they just break through the seed hull but not so much when they get beyond that to the point where their roots get tangled. While the 15% protein is not as high as oats, the benefit is that they are ready quicker if you should be delayed in the oat sprout production.

I haven't tried any other sprouts as here in the north country that's about all that's economically available.

Here's the sprouting process I used. First I filled a 3 qt grain scoop with the berries. 

Then I soaked those for about 12 hours in a bucket of water. I added a few handfuls of sunflower seeds as those sprout at about the same rate as the oat berries.

After rinsing, I put them in a tray that I had drilled small drain holes in the bottom and larger drain holes in the cover so they drained from one through the next when stacked. (Edit: You can also put them in a bucket with holes. That might save some space but I found the tray is easier to scoop a measured portion from. Whatever you use you'll have to periodically disinfect it, and the ones below it, because the tray begins to grow mold after several uses.)

I rinsed them with water several times a day. The top tray drains down through the 2nd, through the 3rd or 4th and into the bottom tray which doesn't have drain holes in the bottom so it acts as a catch basin for the water draining down through. I put a small piece of 2x4 under one end so the water drained better. Each day I start a new tray after I use one so the trays were started on consecutive days. (Edit: I gave the drain water to the chickens as I imagine it has a lot of nutrients in it. Being chickens, they love it!)

I used these trays from amazon.com

https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/B06ZZDC235/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o03_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1 and they are just the right size for a full scoop of berries.

So far I'm thrilled with the sprouting project. The goats love them, milk production has increased, milk seems to have higher butterfat, and I'm feeding 1/2 the amount of grain. If you try this process please comment to let me know how you're doing with it.

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Charlie"s Journal - Day 14 - Freedom Tastes Like Goats and Revenge

Dear Journal,

Today… it happened. The cone is gone.

THE. CONE. IS. GONE.

For two weeks I have lived in plastic purgatory, burdened by neck floaties and the weight of betrayal. I have suffered the indignities of gorilla tape repairs, sympathetic head pats, and more than one very public bathroom break involving a cone full of leaves. I have knocked over chairs, bruised shins, and been mistaken for a satellite dish at least twice.

But this morning… the humans said the magic words.

“Charlie, let’s take that cone off.”

At first, I didn’t believe them. I stood there, frozen. I’ve been burned before. I remember that first day when they said I could go outside to pee, but meant on a leash? Yeah. I wasn’t falling for that again.

But then—they unbuckled it. They removed the neck donut and the cone. I shook. I spun. I zoomed.

And then I saw THEM. My goats. My herd. My purpose. My slightly confused woolly friends who have spent the last two weeks being guarded by… another dog. Honestly, Journal, I think one of them tried to unionize in my absence. After all, that other dog wasn't ME!

I ran to them, free at last, with the wind in my fur and the overwhelming need to sniff every single one of them just to make sure no one got funny ideas while I was away.

The humans clapped and called it “adorable.” I called it justice.

They think I’m healed. They think I’ve moved on. But deep down, I’ll never forget. I’ve been through a lot. I’ve been snipped, stitched, stapled, and shackled in shame plastic. I’ve known the pain of betrayal. I’ve licked the edge of the cone and tasted despair.

But I survived. And now I am FREE.

If you need me, I’ll be out in the pasture—head held high, tail wagging strong, keeping my goats safe from every shadow, squirrel, and suspicious breeze.

And if anyone tries to come near me with a cone again? They’d better bring a LOT snacks.

Forever victorious,
Charlie, the Restored
Protector of Goats. Breaker of Collars. Survivor of The Snipening.

Editor’s Note:
“Charlie’s Journal” will return in the event of porcupine encounters, skunk diplomacy failures, mysterious barn snacks, or any future medical interventions requiring inflatable accessories. Stay tuned. It’s only a matter of time.

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Charlie's Journal - Inmate #728: Mugshots & Misery

They told him it was just a “car ride.” The kind with the window cracked open and the breeze in his fur. Maybe a stop for a puppuccino. Maybe a trip to the feed store where everyone says he’s such a good boy.

But oh no. Not this time. This was The Betrayal.

Poor Charlie—alias “Donut Dog,” also known in certain circles as “Sir Licks-a-Lot”—was led into the vet’s office all wag and wiggle. He came out looking like a lampshade from a discount furniture store. You could see the disbelief in his eyes. The Great Pyrenees of the North Woods, protector of sheep, conqueror of coyotes, reduced to a walking satellite dish.

The official charges read:

• Resisting staples

• Multiple cone destructions

• Unauthorized removal of surgical closure

Translation: he popped his stitches, ate the replacement cone, and staged an escape that would’ve made Houdini proud.

His sentence? Cone confinement. Indefinite.
Parole eligibility: Pending good behavior (unlikely).

We tried the soft collar. He shredded it. We tried the inflatable one. He used it as a pillow. Finally, we resorted to the industrial-strength plastic model—the “satellite of shame.” He bumps into walls, takes out furniture, and clears a coffee table with a single head turn. You haven’t lived until you’ve been woken up at 2 a.m. by a dog’s cone scraping your bedpost like a haunted violin.

Still, justice—or at least veterinary law—must be served. For now, the inmate shows no remorse. He’s plotting his next breakout, likely involving duct tape, raw determination, and poor judgment. But deep down, I know he’ll make parole eventually. After all, no matter how ridiculous he looks, I can’t help but love that goofy face staring out from behind the plastic.

Cone or not, he’s still my hero… just slightly more aerodynamic.

Tricked, Snipped, and Framed

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Charlie's Journal - Day 7 of Cone Confinement

Dear Journal,

It has been one week since The Great Snipening.

They continue to insist this is “for my own good,” but I remain unconvinced. Nothing good has happened since. I’m still wearing the cone. Still wearing the neck pillow. Still being kept indoors like some kind of overgrown, emotionally fragile houseplant.

I used to have a job. A purpose. I used to bark at hawks. I used to chase shadows in the pasture and pretend they were threats. I had goats to guard. Now? My days consist of being told “No, don’t lick that” and knocking my cone into every wall, doorframe, and human shin in this house. I'm a once-fearless guardian now reduced to a hallway speed bump.

The humiliation is endless.

I tried to mount an escape attempt on Day 5. I pressed my cone against the door, pawed at the handle, and made my saddest howl. They thought it was “adorable” and filmed it for Instagram. Instagram, Journal. I was betrayed twice in one week.

I have not pooped in peace since this thing was attached to my head. I have lost peripheral vision. I have learned what a “baby wipe” is. No dog should know these things.

My humans have taken to calling me “Donut Dog.” Sometimes “Sir Licks-A-Lot” when they catch me trying to sneak around the cone. The shame is unbearable. I was once a noble guardian. Now I’m a cautionary tale for puppies.

The goats have probably forgotten me. Maybe they’ve hired a goose in my place. Or worse—a mini donkey. I shudder to think of it.

I shall continue my silent protest by dramatically sighing and flopping to the ground every time someone walks by. And if I get one more “boop” on the nose while I’m trying to sleep? I will file a formal complaint.

Please send snacks. And maybe bolt cutters.

Desperately yours,
Charlie, The Conehead Avenger
(formerly of the pasture, now of the couch)

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Charlie's Journal - Day 3 of Captivity

Dear Journal,

I write to you from the confines of this…prison. Once, I was a proud and noble livestock guardian, patrolling the fields, barking at rogue butterflies, and valiantly protecting my  from imaginary threats. But that life—that freedom—is gone now.

It all began last week on a sunny Tuesday. I was so excited. They said, “Wanna go for a ride?” and I said, “HECK YES I DO.” I jumped into the truck like the good boy I am. Oh, the wind in my ears! The smells! Adventure was calling.

Little did I know… I was being betrayed.

We arrived at the vet’s. A place I had once loved. Treats! Pets! Weird little dogs in sweaters I could sniff! But this time was different. They left me there.

They. Left. Me.

When I awoke, something was… missing. I won’t go into detail, Journal, but let’s just say the family jewels had been repossessed.

I returned home wearing what they call a “cone.” I call it a “satellite of doom.” I can’t lick anything, I can’t go anywhere without knocking over furniture, and I have not successfully navigated a doorway since. It’s like trying to live with a lampshade strapped to your soul.

I did manage to remove my stitches, which felt like a win at the time. But then came the vet trip at night. The emergency place. They stapled me shut like a used Amazon box and gave me an even bigger cone. I removed those too. (I refuse to be held together by your human office supplies.)

Now I wear a ridiculous inflatable neck donut. I look like I’m about to board a red-eye to Florida. And I still have the cone as well. It’s like they’re stacking shame on top of shame.

They keep me indoors now. Indoors.
No goats. No mud. No air thick with the scent of chicken poop. Just... the couch.

My only solace is passive-aggressively sighing and flopping dramatically in the middle of the hallway, where they’ll trip over me and feel the full weight of my suffering.

I don’t know how much longer I can survive like this.
Send help. Or beef jerky. Or both.

Yours in suffering and inflatable accessories,
Charlie, the Formerly Intact

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Stitches? I Don't Need No Stinkin' Stitches! A Livestock Guardian's Neutering Ordeal

Charlie went to the vet’s last Tuesday to be neutered. He’s a little over a year old now, which is the canine equivalent of being a rowdy teenager with a learner’s permit—old enough to get into trouble, and just young enough to think it’s a good idea.

He jumped into the truck like we were headed on the greatest adventure ever, tail wagging, tongue flapping, not a care in the world. He strutted into the vet’s office like he owned the place, sniffing every corner and introducing himself to everyone. “Hi, I’m Charlie. You smell like a snack. Wanna be friends?”

And then it hit him.

“Wait. You’re leaving me here?” he asked, ears back, eyes wide with betrayal.

“Yes,” I said, channeling my calmest mom voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up later.”

Well, the dog we got back that evening was not the same confident explorer who’d leapt into the truck that morning. This one looked like he’d sat on a wasp nest and was absolutely certain it was our fault.

Then came the infamous Cone of Shame.

Even with that, by Wednesday Charlie had pulled all his stitches out, broken the cone, and ripped it off his head like it was on fire and full of bees.

“Charlie, what did you DO?” I gasped.

He looked me dead in the eye. “Stitches? I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!” (Yes, that’s paraphrased from Blazing Saddles, but it was definitely the vibe.)

To top it off, his regular vet was on vacation. Of course he was. It’s a universal law: if something can go sideways, it will, and the vet will be sipping margaritas somewhere out of cell range. So off we went to the emergency clinic, where they gave him a bigger collar, a generous helping of staples, and a round of antibiotics. Surely that would do the trick. They also gave me a bill that could have bought a used car and a headache big enough to have its own zip code.

By Thursday, he’d broken the collar again and yanked out the staples for good measure. When I confronted him, he made it clear he had no intention of being held together with office supplies. This dog is part livestock guardian, part Houdini, and part chainsaw—and I’m single-handedly keeping Gorilla Tape in business just trying to keep the cone from total collapse.

I called his regular vet’s office again, and they gave me the ol’ shrug. Since he was clearly on a mission to remove anything foreign from his body—no matter how many times we reinstalled it—they said putting more staples in would be “pointless.” The wound would eventually granulate and heal on its own. (Granulate: fancy vet word for “It’ll scab up if he stops acting like a maniac.”)

Their one helpful tip? A blow-up pillow collar that looks like one of those neck pillows people wear in airports. It’s supposed to keep the cone from collapsing and maybe keep him from turning himself into a DIY project again.

So now poor Charlie is wearing a neck floatie and the Cone of Shame. We’re keeping him inside to avoid fly strike, and he's miserable. What should have been a few days of recovery before he was back out with his goats has turned into weeks of indoor incarceration, complete with wardrobe. He has lost not only his dignity, but also his masculinity and his freedom—all at the hands of the humans he once trusted.

He’s taken to sighing dramatically and lying by the door, like a disgraced action hero waiting for one last mission that will never come. Every exhale is heavy with betrayal, every glance at the doorknob a silent plea for freedom.

So here’s to Charlie—formerly intact, veteran of suffering, fashion icon of inflatable accessories, protector of goats, breaker of collars, and sole survivor of The Snipening. His resume grows by the day.

Please send Charlie your thoughts, prayers, and maybe a cone forged from steel-reinforced titanium with NASA-grade duct tape. He’s going to need it.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm