Heh, I'd considered that myself. We used to have a resident one at the old Walhalla Lodge Hotel. The publican had adopted her as a lost baby, (her mother was hit by a truck while she was still in the pouch) and initially called her Willy, then when he figured out that she was a girl he changed it to Wilhelmina. She had a passion for root vegetables, and would chew her way through ANYTHING to get at potatoes or beets. Also bowl you over if you were carrying anything she wanted to eat.
She had her own little den in the pub cellar, from which she would emerge to nibble the ankles of drinkers in the pub. She would go out into the bush for days or weeks about her own wombatly occasions, but always came back, and often the first you knew of it was tripping over her in the dark.
On the twisty mountain road between Walhalla and Woods Point the wombats were a real hazard. This was a road with sheer cliff on one side and a steep drop on the other, with little pulloffs every half mile or so that you could back a car into to give way to the logging trucks. Every week, sometimes oftener, the emergency service at Walhalla or Erica would get called out to rescue somebody whose car had gone off the road after hitting a wombat.
