I suppose one of my jinxes has been pets, and it could well be the jinx was of my own making ...
As a child, I had lots of pets (mainly dogs), and (for the record ... ) all were well loved and well cared for.
Unfortunately, our house faced onto the main highway leading out of my hometown, and the vast majority of my canine pals ended up as street pizza. Those that we managed to keep off the highway almost always fell victim to mystery degenerative illnesses at relatively young ages and either died in front of me or had to be put down by the vet. Bottom Line: Pets, no matter how carefully cared for, were heartaches waiting to happen.
I therefore forbade myself from owning pets by the time I was in high school.
As to the jinx being self-inflicted ...
I was a mere toddler when I had the first pet the family acknowledged as 'mine' - a mainly Chow Chow mix named Sparky. For reasons unknown, I almost immediately traded Sparky to my older cousin for Midnight - a solid black kitten - because I somehow liked cats better than dogs.
One day the adults made a big project of washing Sparky and a few other family dogs. My toddler mind figured this was something one responsibly does with one's pets. I set about to exercise my own pet owner responsibilities by washing Midnight in a large tub of rainwater at my grandparents' house nearby. Midnight didn't like this at all, and it took a lot of effort to keep dunking him, all the while assuring him he needed to be clean. It took a while for Midnight to quit struggling so I could properly finish the bath.
Soon thereafter, my parents noticed me toddling back toward our house from my grandparents', clutching Midnight in both hands and occasionally stopping to closely examine the cat. Concerned I might be harming the cat, they came out to meet me. I raised the inert black feline to them and said, "Kitty no move!?!"
Yeah, that's right - the lead-off entry on my pet ownership resume was drowning a black cat.
I suppose this explains my miserable luck with subsequent pets. To add insult to injury, the exception that proved the rule was Sparky ('my' first dog, whom I traded for Midnight). Sparky alone outlived all other family pets of that era, crisscrossed the deadly highway with impunity, and died at a venerable 14 or 15 years of age.
Sparky seemed particularly fond of me over the years, and I often joked he loved me out of gratitude for trading him away and allowing him to escape my curse.