My friend and I are on our way to Groningen to pick up a puppy. An extremely environmentally unfriendly puppy, since dogs are notoriously bad for the climate. But among the many good reasons I considered for not getting a dog, the fact that it would grow to become a little methane bomb with an annual environmental impact equivalent to a car drive to Naples and back, was not one. And if I’m honest, the prospect of having to get off the sofa and brave the cold every night definitely weighed more heavily. Text: Fleur Jongepier. This column previously appeared in De Volkskrant. Photography: Andrew Schultz via Unsplash Some philosophers write entire articles about ‘population ethics’, arguing in all seriousness that conceiving a child in times of collapsing ice caps is an immoral act. But would this stance really have played a role in their own decision on whether to have children? I doubt it. “Did you consider the fact that having children is bad for the environment? Was it a factor in your decision on whether to have children?” I ask my friend. She shakes her head. When it comes to puppies and babies, the climate does not play much of a role . And yet I don’t really see us as evil villains. It may be because I’m a professional ethicist that I feel resistance to practising ethics in my free time. But I think there’s more to it than that: I believe it’s quite normal to not want to view all your choices through a moral lens. In fact, it’s really good to be able to choose something without the sour face of ‘morality’ constantly looking over your shoulder. This concern about the omnipresence of ethical reflection has a rich history. In the past (and by past, I mean: ‘in modern-day ethics textbooks’), people believed that this was only an issue for utilitarianists. Utilitarianists believe that we are here to maximise happiness in the world. In other words, being human, you can never do enough. Instead of reading this piece, you could have done some volunteering work. Instead of getting that cappuccino, you could have given the money away to charity. Instead of enriching your life with a puppy, you could have spent your time signing climate petitions. As far as utilitarianists are concerned, you never get to just be human. It’s all very tiresome. Nothing is ever enough. But the same applies to the rest of us. Even if you don’t buy into utilitarianism, almost every choice these days is morally contaminated. Pretty much any choice you make will be a little, very much, or terribly environmentally unfriendly. You don’t have to believe that you should maximise wellbeing to second-guess every purchase you make in the supermarket, every holiday fantasy that pops into your mind, and every puppy you pick up in Groningen. Morally contaminated? One could take a different perspective, I hear you think. We could also see it as moral progress that we assess so many aspects of our lives along ethical lines. Far better, in any case, than unreflected steaks, squeezed and bruised avocados, and taking the plane to Naples for a weekend. I believe both perspectives are true: the fact that such a large portion of our daily choices is morally contaminated is indeed progress. But we’re also allowed to just be irritated by the fact that ethics has permeated every corner of our lives, and it is perfectly legitimate to occasionally show morality the door. In fact, the most important reason for doing so is purely pragmatic: to avoid a moral burnt-out, especially as the pressure on us will only increase with time. Because the next step after fatigue (‘Can’t I simply enjoy this holiday, this coffee?’) is to give up and say: never mind. To think: it doesn’t matter whether I eat steak, adopt a puppy, have my shopping home delivered, or fly to Naples. But it does matter. Precisely in order to have the strength to keep going, you should allow yourself, every now and again, to leave ethics whining in its crate.