And, my name is Francis - as in the blessing-of-the-pets St. Francis. Not Nick, nor Otto, nor Grote. And I'm not a doctor.
All the boys in my family had saintly names. The older one, who was the more creative and prolific dispenser of half-nelsons and other forms of pain was named for the dragon slayer, St. George. My other bother was named for archangel Michael. He was no stranger to pounding me, either.
I don't know of my parents instinctively knew which of us would be warlike and prone to physical violence, and who would be the taker-in of stray cats and dogs, but it seems the names they gave us were pretty apt.
