When You Start Walking Your Dog at 6 a.m. Just to Feel Safe
I never thought I’d feel surveilled while taking my senior rescue dog for a walk.
Not in Toronto.
Not in a neighbourhood like the Canary District, which is designed to be walkable, progressive, and community-minded.
And yet, here I am.
Over the past few months, something quiet but deeply unsettling has been happening. Patterns. Glances. Timed exits from elevators or entrances at odd hours that match my own movements a little too precisely. A constant sense that I’m being watched. Maybe not by one person, but by a few. It’s subtle.
But it’s there. And when you’ve lived through harassment before, you learn to trust your instincts.
I live in the Canary District with my partner and our corgi, Amelia. She’s a senior rescue with mobility issues, so our walks are slow and predictable. I’m not a confrontational person, but I am visible. I’m a queer public figure. I’ve written books, spoken in media, and I live my life openly. That visibility, I’ve learned, sometimes comes with a cost.
This isn’t the first time I’ve faced neighbour-based harassment. Last year, I was forced to leave a previous home in another part of Toronto after false reports and coordinated hostility left me no choice. So when I started noticing the same uneasy patterns here, I knew I had to act early.
That’s the thing about low-grade, coordinated discomfort: it wears you down. It’s not illegal to look at someone or exit a building at the same time. But when it happens often enough, and when you’re already vulnerable, it chips away at your safety and routine. I now walk Amelia at 6 a.m. or 10 p.m. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
It’s not fair. And I know I’m not the only one.
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If you’re reading this and you feel unsafe in your own neighbourhood, here are a few steps I’ve taken that might help:
Document early and consistently. Dates, times, odd interactions. Even if it feels small. Just make a note. Patterns matter.
Email multiple departments. I’ve contacted 311, 211, Animal Services, my city councillor, and the non-emergency police line. Even if they don’t all respond, you create a record. You show you’re not invisible.
Be clear about your identity. If you’re queer, racialised, disabled, or in any way more visible or vulnerable, state it. Public servants are trained to treat this with seriousness.
Tell your building management and CC others. The more you CC (neighbourhood associations, city offices), the more accountability you create.
Talk about it publicly, if you can. You don’t owe the world your trauma, but sometimes saying “this is happening” helps others find the courage to speak up too.
I don’t write this looking for sympathy. I write it because I know how lonely it feels when your home starts to feel like a place you have to tiptoe through.
Toronto is full of good people. But it’s also full of polite silence and the kind of discomfort that hides behind closed doors and condo board meetings. And sometimes, that silence is enough to drive someone like me into the shadows again.
But I won’t let that happen this time. I’ve done nothing wrong. I just want to walk my dog, live my life, and feel safe in the city I call home.
If you’re reading this and you feel the same way — you’re not overreacting.
And you’re not alone.
Alexander Paul Burton
Writer. Musician. Corgi dad. Just trying to breathe freely in a neighbourhood designed to be walkable.
