Like most wombats, I'm not typically inclined to bother councillors with trifling affairs. Indeed this marks the first occasion I've dipped the ol' quill into ink to correspond with local government in my 17 years living in the Shoalhaven.

I should like to raise with you a matter I trust you're already appraised of, since it made news around Australia and was even mentioned on the BBC!

To wit: the demolition of my family home last week by parties abetted by Shoalhaven City Council.

If you've read the papers you'll know my family's woes began around 1.30am last Wednesday.

At said time I was enjoying a lunch of grass with acquaintances in a pleasant clearing near a pedestrian trail adjacent to Nowra Showground.

Having had my fill - and quite enough company from a snobbish ring-in possum at the luncheon - I turned for home when suddenly I heard the unmistakable sound of dog paws thudding urgently in my direction.

The hairs on the back of my, well, my everything stood on end!

Turns out this rambunctious mutt's name is Brooklyn; an American bulldog they say.

Yankee had apparently slipped his collar; not an ideal turn of events for an old wombat like me, particularly so soon after a substantial lunch.

You see Mayor Gash, despite a long and proud connection to this continent, we wombats are rather low in the vertebrate pecking order.

"Fat, lazy pests!" some are wont to say. "Road-kill in waiting!" others boorishly deride.

Dogs think of us as nothing more than sport. So do some humans. Do you recall the ghastly business at Bendeela camping ground in Kangaroo Valley last month? 

Fourteen wombats squashed into oblivion by a deranged mass murderer at the wheel of a white 4WD.

The dead include the Tibbeys - friends of ours, mind - who were innocently setting up for morning tea around midnight when terror struck. A terrible, senseless loss of life.

And indeed I wondered whether my time had come last Wednesday as I scrambled for the sanctuary of my home with the slobbering, yelping Brooklyn snapping at my sit-upon.

Miraculously I made it. As I burst through the door - to the alarm of my wife Catriona - I thought my close shave was just that. Little did I know our troubles had just begun.

That oaf Brooklyn - a decidedly ugly beast completely devoid of manners - charged headlong into the vestibule behind me, knocking over a treasured antique sideboard in the process.

Catriona shrieked as I took her by the paw and scurried with her through the kitchen, into the parlour and down the staircase deeper into our abode.

We could hear our belligerent American "guest" crashing about through the rooms above, though it did sound like he was becoming somewhat hemmed in. After all, a wombat house isn't designed for the comfort of dogs.

Nevertheless, the din of smashing lamps and splintering furniture carried well into the bedroom wing where our son, Chester, was taking a nap.

The young chap has had a rough time of it lately; a bit of bed-wetting here, some disagreeable dreams there. Nothing he won't get over, but that nasty carry-on in Kangaroo Valley certainly left a sour impression on him.

"We'll be safe in our house, won't we Papa?" he's been asking each night as we tuck him in. "Of course Chesty," I'd soothe. "No dangers here my boy!"

Well, this Brooklyn fellow made a damned liar out of me! Collecting Chester from his room, the three of us dashed to the farthest end of the grand spiral staircase into the wine cellar to catch our breath.

Just as we closed the door, though, Mr Thug Life stuffed his grotty snout into the cellar right after us.

"Argh! Papa!" Chester squealed. "Are we going to be squished alive like the Tibbeys?"

As I said Mrs Mayor, he's only a boy and doesn't know the difference between the grille of a Toyota Hilux and a set of canine fangs. Not that it mattered; he peed himself on the spot.

Fortunately, the fool dog became stuck fast - half his body was wedged in the staircase while his unlovely head was jammed on either side by the walls of the wine cellar, ears stained purple from some of my best vintage merlot it pains me to say.

No longer in mortal danger, we three nipped out through the old stone access tunnel Grandpa Lang built during World War II and crossed the clearing to some hedges on the banks of the Shoalhaven River.

The aforementioned ordeal , however, is not the worst of it. Our dash (ok, waddle) to safety is where my umbrage truly begins.

Over the next two days we watched from the bushes as dozens of humans wearing all manner of hi-vis garb - from the NSW Ambulance Service to the Fire Brigade and Wildlife Rescue South Coast - systematically destroyed the home that had been in our family for generations.

And why?

"Maybe this Mr Brooklyn is a dog version of Stuart Diver?" Catriona whispered as we hid in the brush and watched fire fighters chop through the second floor with mattocks.

Then out came the jackhammers. Jackhammers I say! Not that they did any good; by Friday evening the visi-vest gang had given up on Brooklyn. He was, the papers said, dog gone.

But being nocturnal creatures we have excellent ears. Catriona and I could hear him breathing. So, too, could some local humans because dozens of them soon arrived at the crater that was once our home, bashed it up some more and finally yanked the Yankee free on Saturday.

Pop the bubbly, they said. Indeed!

Only then did I learn the dog's owner was a homeless chap. We certainly know how he feels! Apparently the man has some unresolved trouble with the authorities, too.

Well, you can add our names to that list. A different kind of trouble, yes, but trouble nonetheless.

I'm sure you'll agree, Mrs Mayor, this matter needs your prompt attention and I should be grateful if you'd supply me with the details of the council's insurance company.

Yours sincerely,

Angus Lang,

Nowra​